New stuff 3

If you’re new to the site, scroll down to the previous two entries and read before this entry. Once again, this is a fictional account not meant to express the beliefs or actions of Indulge Moderately.

Little Girls and their Dreams

I knew it wasn’t heaven—but I’m not sure if it wasn’t hell. The room spun like a possessed demon. The darkness provided by my eyelids made me see only in a series of flashing colors. The throbbing pain in my head had yet to fully set in but it was coming strong like a brakeless diesel in the horizon approaching a busy intersection. My throat had turned into sandpaper overnight and my mouth was grainy from the relentless grinding of my teeth. There was a constant stream of screaming like angels being dragged hopelessly to hell—scratching and digging into my head trying to hold on to their fading sanity. “Jesus,” I said under my breath rubbing my head.

“Bobby, how ya feelin’ champ?”

“Been better,” I mumbled as I opened my eyes looking at Teresa feeding her baby.

The light beamed into the house from the open blinds covering half of my face causing my unblemished eye to squint like it’s blackened twin. Joey’s children screamed and played to the sound of Saturday morning cartoons and banging toys designed to torture adults—the same sounds that warned us not to copulate.

“Heard you cowboys had a rough night last night! I heard about the brawl you were involved in—some men just don’t know how to control their anger,” Teresa said in her slightly trashy Texan accent with her back towards me as she nursed her boy in the corner.

“Umm, yeah,” I responded feeling the destruction set in as I sat up from the couch where I slept.

“You know that’s a sleeper sofa? Don’t know why Joey didn’t pull that out? Hey, hon’ why didn’t you pull it out last night?” she said turning her head showing her flushed face as her red hair draped over her baby.

“Don’t know why I didn’t. I usually always remember to pull it out,” Joey said rubbing the baby’s head to the sound of sucking for nourishment.

“And how you feelin’, man?” he said with a sly smile handing me a bottle of water and sitting down in his recliner strategically positioned for optimal television viewing.

I can only manage to speak in consonants, “Mmmm.”

“Yeah, that ol’ boy didn’t appreciate Bobby throwin’ at his head. Next thing ya know, the whole team rushed the mound!” Joey said hiding in his web of lies.

“Why did you throw at his head, Bobby?” Teresa said walking over and sitting the baby down at the opposite end of the couch where I was recovering like he was one of the ‘boys.

“They were bein’ assholes all night—I was tired of all the disrespect,” I said looking down at the carpet caressing my swollen lip.

“Those son’s-a-bitches were like some crazed Indians—you never know what they’re gonna do!”

I was wearing one of Joey’s old yellow shirts that read “Galveston Island” as it hung down to my mid-thigh. A collection of pooled, dried blood from my lip had collected on the collar line of his shirt. I stared at the content baby’s face, as he looked me over, up and down.

“What happened to your face, Bobby?” Joey’s nine-year-old daughter asked as she ran in from the kitchen and sat almost on top of me.

“Now you leave him alone, Charlise, he’s had a rough night!” Teresa instructed her daughter.

Charlise had a strange way of asking very uncomfortable and intrusive questions at the wrong time. She had a certain instinct that sensed any sort of vulnerability and she pounced on it like a wolf on a wounded calf. Charlise hid behind a child’s innocence but I had the feeling she knew exactly what she was asking. Her puffy, ever-flushed cheeks and curly blonde hair made her resemble Joey when she asked such questions.

“Half of your tooths missin’—like mine! Did you get twenty dollars from the tooth fairy? I did!” she said opening her mouth wide.

“No, more like the other way around,” I replied snickering to Joey.

“Why does your breath smell like grandpa’s?” she asked as I heard a loud THUD from right next to me.

“Damn baby, are you okay?” I said as I discovered he had fell over trying to stand and thumped his head against the sharp corner of the wooden coffee table.

“He has a name, Bobby—Charlie Alexander Brenner!” she said as both parents sat motionless as I rushed to help as I patted the baby’s back like a dog.

The tearless baby sat still and gave me a sly grin like he sensed my weakness trying to comfort him, “Charlie Brenner—more like Charles Bronson!” I said in astonishment.

“Dude, we don’t do that, man! Every time he falls we don’t rush to his side. He need’s to learn that we can’t fix all his problems!” Joey said.

“It’s not easy for me to do that—but it’s for the best,” Teresa responded.

“Shit, man! You gotta learn to help yourself in this world! All those little cryin’ assholes on reality shows and the people who blame everyone else for their shitty lives—they were probably pampered growin’ up!”

In a weird moment of silence little Charles Bronson glared at me like was giving me a Death Wish. I turned away and returned to the couch.

“Watch your language in front of the children!” Teresa replied in a tone stating this was not the first time she made this statement.

Charlise hopped in her father’s lap like the lost cat did last night, “We goin’ to the toy store today, daddy?”

“Your mother already told you no!” Joey replied in a soft, stern voice that leaked weakness.

“I don’t understand why we can’t go to the toy store, daddy?” she said rubbing her tiny fingers on her father’s rough, unshaved face.

“Your mother told you no already, Charlise.”

Joey wanted his interior to be as strong as his exterior but it was soft and crumbly. Not a sensitive soft but like a weak frame trying to hold up his word. Women and booze tended to eat-away his wooden pillars like rabid termites.

“But mommy’s goin’ shoppin’ later with grandma. She won’t be here then, so it’ll be your decision,” Charlise replied knowing her mother was in the kitchen.

“We’ll see later. Okay?”

“I’m gonna marry daddy when I grow up!” Charlise said as she smiled at me and hugged Joey.

After I gathered my things I walked towards the door as man-baby shot me a grin like I was walking out on a card game. “You see right through me, baby.” I muttered to myself.

It was 11:00 a.m. as the sun punished my face walking outside towards my car. My eyes burned and it felt like my skin was bleeding as the alcohol seeped merciless through every pore on my body. Opening the car door was like the rush of heat on your face before taking a cooked pizza from the oven. I sat in the driver’s seat and immediately cranked the car sending the vents ripping semi-cold air from the air conditioner.

I sat in the car realizing to check my cell phone for the first time since last night. Or was it early this morning? I had two missed messages, the first being a voicemail the second a text both with unfamiliar numbers—none of which were Amy’s.

The first message was from the credit union I used to finance my car before we were married. Amy takes care of the bills around the house. She’s always been better with accounting purposes then I and I have always felt we should utilize are greatest skills like a team. When we were first married I took the responsibility of household accounting only to overdraw our checking account. “But we still have more checks!” I told the bank.

“There’s no way we’re three payments behind on the car,” I said to myself after listening to the message driving down the street.

“I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride. I’m wanted…”

“Fuck you, Bon Jovi!” I yelled turning the radio station.

It must be some kind of error on the banks part. Maybe we’ve been sending the checks to the wrong address. Maybe we ran out of checks!

The text read:
“Thanx for standing up 4 me last nite! Ur the 1st to do that. Never 4get u. I quit that place. Working @ The G-Spot…come see me sometime!
Caroline ;-+ “

I stopped by the gas station before returning home. I was going to be barraged by a series of questions that I wasn’t nearly ready to answer. I sipped on the jet-fuel laced, junk-fuck coffee that tastes like shit but makes your synapses snap and your veins twitch—making you realize you’re still alive.

I entered our neighborhood and drove down the streets almost getting lost by the identical rows of houses in the master planned neighborhood, housing identical people with identical problems. The yards were manicured perfectly like Astroturf with sprinklers spitting out life in a rhythm reminiscent of their owners. All of my neighbors live in this master planned community each having set their master plans.

I drove up to our little dollhouse assigned a series of numbers to differentiate it from the rest. People made wooden signs or welded metal letters displaying their numbers like it set them apart. The only sign of Amy was a huge oil stain in the driveway. We recently “agreed” to buy her a large SUV to tote herself around because girls driving big trucks are “cute.” The SUV sucked gas away like it did the room left on our credit cards—but it’s cool because she needs it to carry her purse.

I’m getting tired of this neighborhood and Amy’s master plans. She’s rushing our lives like she’s living on a schedule and the alarm clock is ticking for her to get-up and move. I’ve never been a highly organized person and the thought of living on a schedule dulls me like the pen ink she constantly uses to write in her daily planner.

The dollhouse is almost complete with accessories and knick-knacks any little girl would dream of having—even the occupants are becoming plastic. She is boring and her doll parts are factory made and appear to be easily replaceable. Amy may look like a Barbie but she fucks like she’s plastic. Her head and joints can bend from side but her hips stay as stoic as a mannequin.

I’m growing numb inside. I’m overtaken by a sense of melancholy—not sad but not really happy. Life’s going on in front of me at a fast pace but I’ve yet to sample it in years. I shrug my shoulders at any suggestion of change. I don’t feel pain or any sort of emotion—I’m becoming plastic.

“Hey, Bobby! Mornin’ to ya neighbor! See your lawn’s lookin’ better,” said Jared, my douche next-door neighbor as I opened the car door in my driveway.

“Good. Yourself?” I muttered in a leave-me-alone tone to my always-critical neighbor.

I’m stranded in our 2300 square foot space on this island—the mortgage weighs me down preventing mobility and the fence constricts me. The lines have been drawn and the master plans are set--there’s no escaping or chance of rescue.

“Geez, Bobby, what happened to your face? Did you burn your lip on a Hotpocket again?”

“Ha ha!” I responded.

“I know it’s tempting to bite into it after taking it out of the microwave—but you got to give it a few minutes!” Jared said chuckling.

Amy had taken her overnight bag from the closet. That was the only sign of her absence. There was not a note to explain her feelings or any sort of message venting her frustrations. I sensed the alarm clock had woken her from her dream. I wonder how long it will take her to finally get out of bed.