Adam Smith - part 2

Original post date: Monday, June 16, 2008


Adam Smith - part II

Rolling out of bed he switched off his alarm. Reaching in his nightstand he pulled out the only thing his father left him after he died. Well, the only thing he took from his house when his dad died. It was heavy in his hand and the wood grip was worn and well used.

The brightness of the sun tinted his retina red even though his eyes were squeezed shut. He tasted metal, all metal has a distinct taste, but steel, steel tastes like blood. He searches out the hammer with his forefinger and when he pulls it back, adjusting his grip, he scratches the roof of his mouth with the sight. Pausing to run his tongue over this new wound, he grins as the taste of blood intensifies. The metal taps his teeth as his thumb squeezes the trigger.

Click.

There is no report; barely a sound drowned out by the sounds of a Thursday morning. The Polk's lawn service across the street, a weed-eaters high whine, not as scary sounding as a chainsaw echoes between the houses. His vision darkens, tunnels to total blackness.

He is not sure what woke him up, the slamming of his neighbors screen door or the smell of vomit. He couldn't have been passed out that long, but long enough for the heat of the morning to congeal the bile to his cheek. He raised his head and wiped his face. As he rose to his knees he saw his neighbor, Lacey? No, Laney, was her name. She smiled a big smile and waved. He was in awe and tried to keep his eyes focused on her face. She was in a bikini, blue and black, and she was far more attractive than her normal attire let on.

The first time he met her she was wearing jeans, a long sleeve hooded t-shirt with a turquoise tank top underneath and flip-flops. It was spring, eighty degrees outside, and she said she was cold. It didn't make sense to him because she said she was from some small town outside of Milwaukee. Wasn't it cold there? That was the extent of their only conversation, he was too nervous to ever talk to her again.

He stood up and grabbed the hose and started to spray off his deck, he hated it when he threw up. He aimed the spray at the big chunks and watched them fly off into the grass. He had had leftover chicken curry last night and now it was fertilizing his grass. What a waste of good food. He wrapped up the hose and made sure that the nozzle wasn't in the dirt as he made the last loop.

His dad's gun had slid under the one chair he had on his deck. The green and white webbing cast a shadow almost camouflaging it. He grabbed it, hiding it against his leg as he opened the French doors leading into his kitchen. Through the purple tiled kitchen, the office with its eternal hum of a computer, and up the stairs he walked, counting the stairs as he climbed. There were thirteen.

He slid the drawer to his nightstand open and placed the unloaded gun in the drawer. "Until tomorrow," he said. His t-shirt wet with sweat stuck to his back as he tried to pull it over his head by the collar. He grabbed it by the bottom and turned it inside out as he took it off. He had to pause and turn it right side out and fold it even though it was dirty. He placed his folded dirty clothes into the hamper and walked down the hall to the bathroom. He turned on the light and then flipped it off again, the sun was bright enough to light the room and the bathroom fluorescent gave his skin a greenish tint that he liked to avoid whenever possible.

He turned on the water and waited, letting it get hot. Standing in front of the mirror he could see the bones showing themselves under his skin. His reflection was always a disappointment; there was always an improvement that he could see that needed to be made. He turned and climbed into the shower. The water ran over his head and down his back, he stood there with his arms crossed just letting the heat start the cleansing process. Along the wall was an army of shampoos, each with its labels facing out. He took down the Selson Blue and flipped the cap, squeezing the bottle he let it fill his hand, he always used too much shampoo since he cut his hair. Making sure the cap was closed all the way he placed the bottle back in its place on the towel bar. Turning it slightly so that the front of the label could be read. Next week he would turn them all around to read the back labels.

The lather in his hair rinsed out and flowed down the middle of his back. He grabbed the bar of Ivory soap ran it over his stomach a couple of times to wash off the left over pubes on the bar. Stroking himself twice he thought about masturbating, but he was already running late and couldn't miss his bus, so he promised himself he would jack off when he got to work. He rinsed off, grabbed his towel and was dry before his feet touched the bath mat. Boxers, jeans, deodorant, shirt, and shoes, he grabbed his backpack and was out the door. He couldn't remember if he brushed his teeth or not, so he would brush them at work with the toothbrush in his locker.

Three blocks he walked at a speedy librarian pace to get to his bus stop. He beat it there by two minutes. Mr. Johnson was waiting for the 2:33 as always fifteen minutes ahead of time. He has known Mr. Johnson for six years now and only knows him by his last name and doesn't even know where he works. He always has his nose in his newspaper when Adam gets to the bus stop and only peers over it briefly with a scowl as Adam sits down next to him. The 2:18 shows up and Adam stands to board. The bus driver nods as he gets on and closes the door. The bus is empty, except for one person. Adam grabs the bar by the front seat and remains standing, staring at the man in the front seat. The bus driver eyes him through the rearview mirror, waiting to see what is going to happen.

The passenger, quite a large man, is spilling over the edge of the seat, looks up at Adam. "May I help you?" the man says.

"You're in my seat."
"There are plenty of seats on this bus."
"But you're in mine."
"Sit somewhere else."
"I always sit in that seat, I have sat in that seat for the past four years."
"Sorry, son, but you're going to have to break that tradition today."
"I'll stand thank you, and marvel at the engineering behind the weight capacity of that seat."

The man stood up and squeezed passed Adam. In disgust Adam watched the man rub up against every seat he passed by, too wide to even turn sideways down the aisle. The ride took its usual twenty-three minutes, seventeen stops and no passengers boarded, but the large man got off at the eleventh stop. He grumbled something under his breath that Adam couldn't quite make out but thought he said, "disrespectful youth of today." Adam thought, "Whatever, loose some weight and maybe you won't go to hell for being so fat."

The bus pulled up to his stop on Eighth Street and Adam stepped off, waited for the bus to pull away and crossed the street. Shands Hospital was standing proud in front of him, amongst the decrepit neighborhood that surrounded it. With his Jansport on his back he waved his arms and pretended he opened the doors with his mind. He waved to Josephine behind the information desk in the lobby and made his way down the hall to the service elevators. Another day cleaning up after the most incredible accidents, the trauma center always had at least one life flight a day, and it was Adams job to take out the trash.

He found his bathroom and lived up to the promise he made to himself. He walked out of the locker room in his uniform, khaki pants and a stiff white collared shirt. The day started with no exceptional accidents and ended with just one old lady who had fallen off of a ladder and shattered her pelvis. He overheard that she would have to spend her remaining days in a wheel chair. His shift ended with no trophies tonight either, but no matter he didn't get his last one from work.

After he changed, he walked outside and the crispness of the summer evening gave him goose bumps. He turned right out of the main drive and started his walk home. The stars were bright tonight and the moon was high. He gazed up looking for the lady in the moon; she seemed to always be singing, belting a song really, he could never pick the song that he thought best fit her to sing. So, he just left her to sing in silence. He wouldn't hitch tonight; it was too nice of a night. He loved the smell of a summer night, with each breath you brought in a cleanliness that seemed to only make itself present at this point in every evening. He wanted to capture every one he could tonight.

He got to the overpass in and hour and a half, he jumped over the guardrail and squeezed through the fence. Made his way through the Polk's yard and crossed his street. As he placed his foot on the first step up to his porch, he froze. On his porch sat Laney, her knees pulled up to her chest, and her back to his door. It looked like she had been crying black tears.

"I watch you come home every night to an empty house. I need someone to talk to tonight and I knew you would be home, you always come home."

Adam stood there for what felt like an eternity, when he finally broke his paralysis and climbed the steps, Laney stood up. She stepped to the side as he reached into his pockets to fish out his keys. Still without a word he unlocked his top lock and then his bottom lock, each with the respective keys coming from their respective pockets. He looked into her swollen eyes and held open the door so she could walk in, not sure what to expect.