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| (visual by Stinkie Pinkie via this license) |
dispatch five
Low Tide Gurgling
Against The Breeze by Jackie Corley
debuted 1 June 2009 | kept 518 times | click to keep
Jack’s still talking to the guy as the car starts pulling away. "Thanks, man. Have a good one," he hollers.
He closes the door carefully this time, spreading his hand over door and frame and testing the knob after locking it. He unbuttons his jeans and lets them drop to the floor. He walks over to the bedside bureau and tugs the drawer open, picking up the cheap locker mirror sliding around inside it. I shuffle past him and head toward the bathroom.
"Don’t you want any? It’s your money."
"No," I say. "My muscles feel heavy and numb. I just want to sit in the tub for awhile."
He shrugs and starts drawing lines at the table.
The smell of bleach crowds the air in the bathroom. I stand on the lidded toilet and slide open the small, glazed rectangle window near the ceiling.
I start the water. Before the stream cracks 50 degrees, I hear Jack screaming.
"Shit. This is bullshit," he shouts, lifting his chair and slamming it back down on the ground repeatedly. I sit at the edge of the bed and stare at my outstretched legs.
He starts pacing back and forth across this tiny stale room as he searches his cell phone directory, jabbing at the buttons with his thumbs.
When someone picks up on the other end, he pauses near the door, hand anchored on a gummy wooden wall panel.
"Hey, man, what the fuck is this? I got this nasty baking soda shit dripping down my throat," he says. "Been coming to you for over a year."
The voice on the phone is slow and unrepentant. Jack listens and balls his fist up, tracing his middle knuckle down the dark seam where two panels meet.
"I told you I’d get you that money. I always–"
"Shut the fuck up. We’re done."
"Oh yeah? Well, fuck you," he shouts into the receiver. "Hello? Terry? Hello?" Jack throws the phone at the bed; it bounces in the center of the stiff mattress and clips the knobby edge of my elbow where all my nerves are knotted up. "He fucking hung up on me."
I massage the elbow, rubbing away the electric jolt that shot through my arm. Jack comes over and tucks strands of hair behind my ears.
"Sorry about that," he says, letting his palm linger at my cheek. He brings his chapped lips to my temple. My eyes close. I reach a hand out for his hip but he’s already walking back to the chair.
"Well, tonight’s going to be nice and shitty," he says, sucking in the skin under his lip.
"Let’s just get out of here and drive around."
"Got any alcohol?"
"Yeah, sure. We can stop off at my parents’ house. Got half a bottle of rum in my closet," I say.
Jack scrunches up his face, letting his tongue fall out of that loose, sloppy mouth of his. "It’ll have to do, I guess."