The Novelty of Sinking Low
by John Evans
Steve Williams opened his eyes slowly. He had been asleep, or something like asleep, for a little over two hours and as he focused on the near-stationary ceiling above him he was thankful for the way he felt: not good, but much better than usual. He closed his eyes again, secure in the knowledge that he would not fall back asleep, and listened to the words of Ben E. King blaring from his home’s satellite music system. “I won’t be afraid, no I won’t be afraid, just as long, as you stand, stand by me.” This was good, this continuous music, and he felt almost good, and it was quite possible that things would be alright. Ben E. King had soul, rolling-gravel-below-cold-water-in-his-voice soul, and it was obvious to Steve that Ben E. King, in some small way, knew: Ben E. King understood. Steve stood and walked through the sliding doors and into his closet where, at the end of a long row of suit jackets, he leaned one arm against a motorized tie rack and aimed his urine in the direction of three partially full coffee cans. This is silly, he thought, and not a good system, devised out of necessity for times when he was not capable of making it the extra eight steps to the bathroom. So why now, why do it? “Why the hell not?” Steve said aloud, directing the stream, just for fun, toward the fullest can so that it splashed the carpet around it. What was carpet? Carpet was nothing. He would replace it either some day or never.
Steve found his pants, belt still looped, beside his bed. Digging through the sheets he found his shirt. “Same shirt, different day. -- Williams Printing,” it read, which was good stuff, really witty stuff, and just the sort of thing that made people like him. His running shoes were also in the bed, and he put them on without socks. Things were coming together nicely. The Everly Brothers succeeded Ben E. King through the speakers above the staircase and their voices followed Steve through the foyer, hallway and into the kitchen. “Should have called themselves The Momma’s Boys,” Steve said to his refrigerator, before opening it and removing his last four Bud Lights.
Four... Four... What time was it? Steve looked around the room. Every light was on, every curtain or shutter was closed, which was just the way he liked it -- in the kitchen as well as the rest of the house, but it made it impossible for him to determine the time of day without a clock. Steve walked down the hall, into his study, out of his study, into the living room, out of the living room, through the foyer, into the den, out of the den and back to the kitchen, where the digital clock on the microwave read 9:15. Pretty safe bet that’s am, Steve thought, which means the fear will start to hit me around 11:30, just before lunch. Never at work, that was one of Steve’s strictest rules. He opened three of the four beers and spent the next ten minutes drinking and singing along with “Blue Moon” and a song he had never heard before, one with “ra-ma-la-ma ding dong” in the chorus.
Steve finished the third beer, picked up the unopened one, and headed out the kitchen door, through his empty four car garage and into the sunlight of a beautiful Midwestern morning. The sun was bright, but it did not hurt his eyes, and the spot where he stood was shaded by the oaks that separated his yard from his neighbors’. The air smelled like fresh cut grass and lilacs and held just a hint of recently evaporated dew. It might be all right, Steve thought, it might just be all right. But what was it? There would be plenty of time to work that out later. Steve walked around the corner of the garage. A huge white Mercedes loomed in the driveway in front of him; its presence calming, reassuring. Steve opened the driver’s door, sat down and stared at an orange, hooked metal rod that he immediately identified from TV commercials as “The Club.” My wife... No, my ex-wife, Steve corrected himself, only to find that he was lapsing a few seconds later into the dim hope of someday calling her his wife again. Steve got out of the car to survey the situation. It appeared that in the absence of a windshield, with the tilt wheel all the way down, the steering wheel might regain its full range of motion. There was a cinder block behind the garage. But then there was the trouble of his legs. It was useless to smash-out the windshield as long as his legs would still be needed to operate the pedals. This was a problem and Steve sat back down in the driver’s seat in order to get a better perspective on things. He was in the first stages of a plan in which he would throw his legs into the passenger seat and coast around every corner when he noticed that the keys had been removed from the ignition. Steve sat motionless, trying, unsuccessfully, to identify the muffled version of the song that was playing inside the house.
Screw it.
Ex-wife. She was his ex-wife.
The sound was like one, continuous, vibrato flop, and though meshed with the exhaust note and clatter of a John Deere lawn tractor in fourth gear, it was still distinctly audible below and behind Steve’s left ear. Well, screw that too; it wasn’t very loud, or particularly disturbing, and he was sure that it, like the strange, left, rearward tilt of the tractor, would be easily ignored and forgotten. Steve turned left at the end of his driveway and onto Sycamore Drive.
The neighborhood was calm and otherwise very quiet. There were neither bathrobed husbands retrieving morning newspapers nor sun-hatted wives prodding into their landscaping to disrupt the aura of his environment. He liked the air of this place, slightly stagnant in an indescribable way, as if he were moving through one huge diorama. Steve cracked open the last beer and took a sip. This was nothing: no event, no more complicated than a successful businessman, no, entrepreneur -- no more complicated than a successful entrepreneur and former school board president taking a morning drive on his lawn tractor. It was possible that he was going to mow a friend’s lawn, as a favor, or that he had just fixed this tractor and was taking it for a test drive, or, yes, better still, that he was driving the tractor to the gas station so that the mechanics could repair its flat tire. Steve took another sip. Aside from the mist of anxiety about his head, the cloudy suspicion that he was leaving something undone, he was actually feeling pretty good now. As he drove away from his home, turning onto and progressing along different streets, a gradual transformation was taking place. Houses were getting smaller, squeezing together and creeping closer and closer to the road, and it was because of this change in scenery, the beer he knew he was metabolizing, or both, that Steve’s outlook became tempered with a feeling of sad tranquillity almost like nostalgia. This was his town: his home town. He had been a hell of an athlete in this town, once.
The street was becoming shady again as Steve neared the business district. Block by block the houses were getting older, growing and mutating toward the Victorian behemoths that surrounded Main Street. He knew when he left home that he would have to cross Main Street if he were going to make it to the plant. But what troubled him more than crossing the street was the possibility that he would get stuck waiting on traffic at the stop sign: idling, in full view, atop his lawn tractor. Steve finished the last quarter of his beer in one gulp and tossed it in a yard. It would be alright; he was delivering the tractor for an employee to borrow.
The crossing itself was uneventful; it was quick, and although Mrs. Paul from the country club nearly ran into him as he pulled out, she did not look in his direction, and Steve was sure that if she had recognized him she would have waved. What troubled Steve was the group of young boys on bicycles that he met at the next corner, the ones who were now riding along side him -- laughing and doing wheelies and hopping on and off of the sidewalk.
“Hey, you’ve got a flat tire.”
There were five of them in all. Probably good kids, just as his son had been at that age, doing just what they should be doing on a Tuesday morning during summer vacation. Nothing was wrong with these kids except that they made him a little uneasy.
“Hey, mister, I said you’ve got a flat tire.”
It was an uncomfortable age, for the boys, he was sure, but also for the people around them. This was the age when boys grew, became more adventurous yet hindered by the desire to fit in. It was also the age when boys began to experiment with taking liberties in their speech with adults.
“Hey...”
“Hey listen, I heard you kid.” Steve’s voice was louder than he intended it to be. “I know I’ve got a flat tire.”
He swerved a few feet away from the tractor, the one who had been doing the talking. But after a few, brief, peremptory glances and smiles among the friends, he spoke again.
“So why don’t you stop and fix it?”
Steve was beginning not to like these particular boys. Made bold by the one boy’s relentless questioning, the entire group was riding much closer now.
“Hey, are you drunk or something?”
Steve stopped the tractor and the boys stopped their bikes. Steve stared blankly at the group. Had he slurred? Another boy, smaller than the first, yelled, voice wavering, from the back of the group.
“Yeah, you’re drunk.”
A few seconds passed while Steve let these words sink in. The group did not move. Steve raised the mower deck as high as it would go, engaged the blade, then slowly, carefully, so as not to frighten the boys prematurely, pulled the tractor forward in first gear. This was an important lesson; one that, in time, they would thank him for, Steve thought, as the boys closed in on the tractor. Just as the talkative boy’s bicycle came within arms reach, Steve swerved the tractor toward the sidewalk, banging the mower deck against the curb and scraping the whirling blade into the cement. The sound was deafening, frightening, and for a second Steve was faintly afraid that a piece of the blade might break off and fly through the shower of sparks and hurt someone. But the scene was also extremely funny, and Steve continued on much longer than was necessary, still grinding the blade so as to drown out the yells of “crazy” and “drunk” and “police” from the fleeing gang.
A block later Steve entered the parking lot and pulled into his normal, reserved parking space near the front door. There was no reason to park anywhere else. It was his company. It was his tractor. In the lobby Steve greeted Carol, the receptionist, exchanged the normal pleasantries, then continued back onto the shop floor. He walked on semi-steady legs through the rows of Heidelberg four and six color presses, the ones that had belonged to his wife since the settlement, past the sheet-fed offset presses, and back to the light table where his foreman, Rob, was examining some trial samples.
“How’s it going?” Steve spoke loudly over the sound of the machines and patted Rob on the back. No need to shield his breath from Rob.
“Good, good but busy. We’ve got enough orders that it looks like we’ll need a little overtime on Saturday. Web breaks have been a problem on #2, but there’s nothing going on here that we can’t handle ourselves. Why don’t you just go home and take it easy.”
“How long do you think it will be before we take #2 down for service?”
“Depends on how it acts when we change rolls. If it doesn’t behave itself I’ll just stick around here and fight the fires until it does. You know I’ll call you if we need you for anything. Why aren’t you at the house today getting ready for Daniel? What time does he get home?”
This was it, the unidentified itch that had been festering in the back of his mind, the impending fuck-up that had been floating above him since he got out of bed. His son, oh Jesus Christ, his son was spending a night at home -- and he would have his girlfriend with him: something about the girlfriend’s sister getting married in Connecticut. Shit, shit, shit.
Steve had known this for a month.
“Wait, what day is today?” He and Daniel hadn’t been getting along for a while and something that would make the visit special was needed. It wasn’t too late.
“Friday, July the second.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Listen Rob, I’m going to need you to leave the shop for a little bit and help me with something.”
“Steve, this is not a good time.” Rob’s voice was forceful.
“Yeah, I know,” Steve could feel himself speeding-up, becoming shaky and tense, “but it won’t take long. Grab your keys and meet me out front.” Steve turned and began walking toward the lobby before Rob could refuse. His buddy Rob always came through.
In the lobby, Carol greeted Steve with a slight frown.
“Carol,” Steve smiled and tried to sound as charming as possible, “I need to take a look at the petty cash box for a moment.”
“Now Steve, why do you always ask me about a fund that you know is empty?”
Steve knew the fund was not empty. “Carol, please get me the box.” It was his goddamned company.
Carol stood, indecisive.
“Please,” Steve put out his hands, “It’s not for me. I want to do something special for Daniel.”
There were six hundred and thirty-eight dollars in the box.
Rob was waiting out front behind the wheel of his running Nissan pick-up. Steve jogged a couple of steps and got in the truck beside him.
“Where’s the Mercedes?” Rob’s voice was cold.
“I couldn’t get it started.”
Rob looked straight ahead. He stopped before pulling out of the parking lot. “Where are we going?”
“Take a left. I want to do something really special for Daniel and his girlfriend, something that, you know, will really show Daniel that I’m glad to have him home and that I want to make the best impression possible for his girlfriend. I need you to... right, right at the corner... I need you to drop me off at the house and then run out to the fireworks shop that’s just past the hospital on twenty-three and get me a bunch of fireworks... pull in, pull in here.”
Rob pulled into a carryout and parked.
Steve got out of the truck and pulled the money out of his pocket. He counted out six hundred dollars and handed it to Rob before running into the store. Steve came back out with a pack of cigarettes and two cases of Bud Light. He put one case into the bed of the truck, then got in and laid the second case on the floor between his legs. He immediately took a beer out of the carton, opened it, and took a big drink.
“What kind do you want?”
“What?” Steve took another big drink.
“What kind of fireworks do you want?”
“Uh, big ones: ones that go really high, the biggest ones they have. If there are bigger ones there that you need a license or something to get, find a way to get those too.”
“How much do you want me to spend?”
“All of it -- as much as you can. I want this to be good.”
The truck was silent while Rob drove and Steve drank. Steve was just finishing his third beer as they pulled into the driveway.
“Anything else you want me to get while I’m away from the plant?”
“No, no that should do it.” Steve fumbled with the carton and the empty cans as he got out of the truck. He slammed the door and leaned back into the cab. “Hey, thanks Rob. You know I’m in a tough spot and I really appreciate your help. You know you’re my right hand man, right?”
Rob’s expression softened slightly. “Yeah, I’ve got to get this done so I can get back to the plant. Say hi to Daniel for me.”
Steve waved as the truck circled the driveway and headed out to the road. Just before it drove away, Steve got a quick glimpse of the second case of beer sliding around in the bed. “Shit,” Steve thought, “I hope Rob remembers that and brings it back.”
Steve took the beer inside and put it in his mostly empty refrigerator. Now that Rob was taking care of the fireworks, the house was his biggest problem. It wasn’t terrible, by his standards, and Daniel had seen it pretty bad, but an unfamiliar guest might just find it disgusting. To begin with, it smelled like urine and vomit and cigarettes. Cigarettes... Steve grabbed the new pack off of the counter and lit one. The first thing to do was to open all the windows and air the place out. Steve walked from room to room opening curtains, blinds and windows, his heart sinking as he went. There were one, two, three vomit stains, one that still contained vomit, a huge water mark on the living room ceiling from when he’d forgotten the bathtub running, cigarette ashes and dust everywhere, randomly thrown cans and garbage -- and then there was that strange urine thing, but otherwise it was a very nice house. Daniel’s room and the guest bedrooms were the cleanest, really undamaged except for smell.
Steve walked back to the kitchen. He would get a beer and start there. The first project in the kitchen would be to do the dishes that were piled in the sink and on the counter -- just in case Daniel and his girlfriend had not eaten and wanted to order dinner. A horrible odor filled the room as Steve opened the dishwasher. Inside it was an amazing collection of
different kinds of mold: white, gray, brown, green-blue with white patches in the center, some sections, mostly in the bottoms of glasses, were low-profile, while others, on flatter surfaces like plates and bowls, were fuzzy, almost soft, resembling dead mice. Steve pulled out the racks and stuffed in the rest of the dishes, then grabbed some dry detergent from under the sink and filled the receptacle. Not enough, he thought, before sprinkling some additional detergent on top of the dishes and closing the door. It was with a great feeling of satisfaction that Steve started the washer and rewarded himself with a long drink of beer.
Next came garbage removal. Because of the quantity he had accumulated throughout the house, he decided that the most efficient method would probably be to just bring a large trash can into the house and then drag it out when it was full. Steve walked out to the garage. One garbage can was full, the other two were overflowing.
Screw it.
Steve went back into the kitchen and called the shop.
“Carol this is Steve... Yeah, I was at home here doing a little cleaning and I ran into some trouble... No, nothing bad, it’s just that, you know, a single guy tends to let things go a little... No, now that wasn’t what I was saying at all. You stay at the shop... What?”
Steve paused to watch the dirty, brown dishwasher water that was bubbling up into his sink.“Now I want you to call the people who clean the offices and have them send some people here as fast as they can... I don’t know, how many do they have?... Yes, perfect, and just charge it to the company.”
Steve hung up quickly to avoid the scolding he knew he would have received. Beside him the sink bubbled and stank. It was already a quarter full and rising. Action had to be taken.
Steve retrieved a container of muratic acid from the garage and poured half of it into the sink. He stared at the gurgling sink and took another sip of his beer.
Screw it.
Steve poured the rest of the container into the sink and finished his beer. Nothing, just rising, brown, mold-water.
The clock on the microwave read 3:24; it seemed reasonable that there was plenty of time before Daniel would arrive. Steve grabbed the beer, walked out onto his back patio and lay down on a lawn chair. The sky was blue, unusually blue he thought, and speckled with a few, small, slow-moving clouds. Steve raised his seat and opened another beer. In front of him the pool was brown and dirty, not unlike the sink except for the pool cover a few inches below the surface and the maple leaves floating on top. It was cool for a July day, but there was still a chance that Daniel would be disappointed at not being able to swim. Steve’s mind slipped into an appreciation of youth and darkness and swimming with one’s girlfriend -- especially when the air was cool and a constant embrace was necessary, maybe with distant lights reflecting off of the water and the remote possibility of getting caught. It was a shame about the pool. Steve finished his beer
in one drink and opened another.
There was also the circus tent, down on the yard behind the pool, towering yellow and white striped; brown, dry, dead grass visible through its open flap. The tables and chairs had been removed, the ice sculptures turning to puddles and then nothing months ago, but the tent had remained. When was the last time he’d heard from the rental agency? When was the last time he had checked his messages? They could charge him for as long as they wanted; he didn’t want outsiders around the house. The tent was nice. Steve watched as its red streamers fluttered against a background of trees and cornfields and, further back, the rolling hills of Jackson County.
Steve sat, and drank, sometimes thinking about things that made him sad, pleased that the beer and the comfortable chair and the scenery and the occasional cool breeze were there for him to enjoy.
When Steve opened his eyes he immediately noticed the light, or the absence of it. The sun had not yet set, but the greens around him were more green, maybe a bit yellow, and the bright colors had dulled, as if covered by a fine, gray dust. Seven, Steve thought, and still no Daniel. He stepped from the lawn chair and stumbled, banging his shin on an overturned chair next to his. Steve gave the chair an unsteady kick and walked around the corner of his garage and onto the driveway. In front of the first garage door sat the other case of beer and a very large box filled with fireworks. Beside the Mercedes sat a new, black Toyota Land Cruiser. Steve nearly yelled out before stopping himself; anxiety, love and fear gripping him all at once. Instead he picked up the case of beer and quietly carried it through the garage, kitchen and hall to the living room, where he hid it behind the logs in the gas fireplace. Where were they? Steve walked upstairs and checked the bedrooms, bathrooms and theater, then made another circuit of the first floor. He even peeked down the stairs leading to the basement. Well, wherever they were, he knew he should be making better use of his time.
After dumping a case of Pepsi into the least overflowing of the garbage cans in the garage, Steve carried the empty carton to the patio, transferred the full beer cans into the carton, then lifted the top off of a pool strainer and disposed of the beer carton and empty beer cans. Feeling clever, he walked into the kitchen, put the beer/Pepsi carton in the
refrigerator, then, after moments of deliberation, removed a beer, opened it, and walked out into the front yard.
They were at the end of the driveway, hand in hand, and although Steve knew that Daniel was nineteen, knew that he had not grown since the last time he had seen him, Steve could not help but get the impression that his son was taller, bigger. Of the girl he could not make out much, only that her figure was thin and that she wore shoes with medium sized heels. But as they came closer Steve recognized the familiar curves of his son’s face and an awkward, almost bashful smile of recognition. Steve raised his hand and waved, then took a quick drink of his beer and threw the can into the bush behind him. Steve fought the urge to run as he walked quickly across the yard to meet them.
There was no hesitation. He hugged his son immediately, giving him a tight squeeze punctuated by a hard, fatherly pat on the back. Nothing could be better than this. Steve felt the continuity, the impression that an unbroken chain of events connected the baby he had been so pleased to hold on his lap with the handsome young man who stood before him now. It was all still there; nothing was lost.
Steve turned to the girl and hugged her as well. Her thin build was soft, her skin warm, and the air above her head was permeated with the smells of shampoo and fabric softener. He could understand why Daniel liked, maybe loved... maybe loved this girl. Steve released the girl from one arm, then the other, and stepped back. There was a short silence. Steve looked at the girl, saw that she was embarrassed, and nearly panicked.
“Dad, this is Susan, from school, my girlfriend.”
Steve reached out his hand for an official, although slightly awkward, handshake. Her smile was warm, a little tentative, but perfect in some unexplainable way when combined with her light blue eyes, blond hair, and tiny freckles.
“It is good to finally meet you Susan.” Steve hesitated, unsure of what to say next. “When did you guys get here? Have you eaten?”
Susan looked to Daniel for an explanation. There was something Steve was missing and he suddenly realized that he had not showered or changed clothes. When was the last time he had shaved? When was the last time he had looked in a mirror? Steve reached slowly for his chin. When what he felt was more of a beard than stubble, a slow tremble began to work its way from his finger tips up his arms. He needed a beer.
“Yeah, we got here about an hour ago, but you were taking a nap and we didn’t want to wake you, so we just put our things upstairs and took a walk around the neighborhood to kill some time.” Daniel’s voice was drifting from what Steve had heard during the greeting into what he was accustomed to hearing over the phone. “What happened in the kitchen?”
“Nothing that I know of; what’s wrong with it?” Had the cleaners even come?
“Well, the rest of the house is all right, but the kitchen floor looks like a damn swamp.”
Susan had her arms around Daniel’s elbow now and Steve wondered if she were trying to influence the conversation via furtive squeezes. She seemed like a nice girl. The boy, however, was putting him on the spot and there was a short silence during which he did not know what to say. Daniel glared.
“You know, it’s probably just a leaky pipe. Susan, I’m sorry, would it be all right if I borrowed Daniel for just a second to help me with this?” Steve felt terrible, but it was necessary, this nice girl could find something else to do.
“It will only take a second.” Daniel kissed her on the cheek and walked ahead of him toward the house.
Steve wanted to stay now, wanted to tell her she could watch TV or wait on the patio, something, but Daniel walked quickly and he had to hurry to keep up.
As soon as they walked in the door Daniel was on him.
“You promised!”
Shit, Steve thought, here we go. “Promised what?”
“That you wouldn’t drink while she was here!”
“I had a couple this afternoon while I was cleaning. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You’re drunk right now!”
The moldy dishwasher smell was noticeable midway through the dining room. When they reached the kitchen Daniel was silent, as if the huge brown puddle on the floor in front of the sink would say all that was necessary. They stared at the puddle until Steve noticed a note from the cleaners on the counter top.
“OK, I messed up, but it’s not the end of the world. Grab a mop out of the garage.” He was still the father and there was still, possibly, the bond of shared chores.
Daniel came back with the mop, but hesitated before handing it to his father.
“Dad, we can’t stay here. I thought it was worth a try, but I’m sorry. I’m afraid of how you’ll embarrass me.”
Steve stood, silent, slightly short of breath, while Daniel retrieved a bucket from the pantry and began filling it.
“I bought fireworks. We can have a show... You used to love fireworks.”
“Dad, I really like Susan. She knows, I told her, and after seeing the way you hugged her I think she’s a little afraid.”
Steve walked over to the refrigerator, removed a beer from the Pepsi carton, and took a big drink.
“I mean come on, look at you.” Daniel exhaled a short, quiet laugh as the first signs of moisture began to show in his eyes. “You look terrible. And what in the hell happened here?”
Steve tried to return the smile that was forming on Daniel’s face. “You remember that stuff we used to clean the stains off of the garage floor a few years ago... I thought it might work to unclog the sink.”
“Well it sure did that!” They were both smiling now, Daniel fighting back tears. “Goddamn it, why can’t we just be like a normal family?”
“Oh don’t be so melodramatic,” Steve sniffled and took a sip of his beer, “we’re pretty normal. Go out and tell Susan that I offered to pay for you two to have dinner and stay at a nice hotel; separate rooms of course. I’ll grab my wallet out of the car while you guys pack your things.”
Daniel looked at the floor. “It’s OK, mom has room in her apartment. She’ll be happy to have us.”
“No, no I owe it to you. Let me get you guys someplace nice.”
“You don’t have any credit cards.” Daniel spoke without raising his head.
“What?”
“Mom took them out of your wallet when she came for your keys.”
Steve fumbled with a flash of quick, unintentional anger. “What in the fuck gives you two the right to take my things?”
“Because we’re trying to help! What gives you the right to do any of the things you do?”
“Because it’s my house!” Steve threw his beer at the refrigerator.
“This was our home, you selfish asshole!” Daniel was yelling, beginning to cry.
Now he had blown it. Things were so far lost that his own son could call him an asshole to his face.
“Get your things and go.” Steve turned, grabbed the Pepsi carton out of the refrigerator, and walked towards the patio, longing for some word to stop him short, regret growing stronger with each step. He sat down in the lawn chair by the pool and listened. He could hear movement, footsteps on the stairs, but no voices. When had the music stopped? Steve could not remember; it had just disappeared like a case of hiccups at some indeterminate time. Probably an overheated amplifier switched into standby. It would have to be something he could fix; he needed the music.
The sound of footsteps had ceased. Steve got up and went into the house, the beer he had forgotten on the counter his premise for walking as far as the kitchen.
Silence. He took a sip of the beer. Susan’s muffled voice, nothing more discernible than a woman’s tone, wavered from the direction of the garage.
A pause, her voice again, then a closing car door. A second door slam, the sound of an engine, the long, slow fade of the engine noise progressing up the driveway... then nothing. Steve stared at the floor. The acid was dissolving the grout between the marble tiles.
The view from the lawn chair was very much as before, but as dusk approached, Steve enjoyed the scenery and his beer less and less. His swimming pool, like some kind of freshwater estuary, had become a huge breeding ground for mosquitoes. Slowly they began amassing around Steve’s eyes, siphoning from his bare arms and maintaining a high-pitched whine in his ears. Jesus Christ, Steve thought, and to top it all off I’m going to turn into some kind of human pin cushion. He finished his beer and walked around to the garage. Bleach would fix the water, but if he was going to lie around and enjoy a drunken depression on his favorite lawn chair, something would have to be done about the mosquitoes in the air.
The box was too heavy to carry so he dragged it, down the steps, over the forever-dry water feature that surrounded the patio, and across the cement to a spot in front of his chair at the edge of the pool. Steve tore off a piece of the Pepsi carton, lit it, tossed it into the box, and sat down. He waited. Nothing. When he looked into the box the cardboard lay useless, a smoking, charred line on one edge. Steve lit it again, tossed it again, and watched as its small flame settled on top of some bottle rockets, flickered, then died.
Screw it.
Steve retrieved some charcoal lighter from beside the grill. He soaked one edge of the box, put a little on top of the fireworks for good measure, then sprayed a thick line of fluid back to his chair and sat down. After a long drink of beer, he lit the wet cement.
This time the fire spread. It started with a harmless yellow flame that slouched its way to the box, crawled up the side, and dropped within. Steve leaned back in his chair, both anxious and indifferent as to what would happen. An anomalous length of time passed before the first hissing sounds came from inside the box. He took another drink.
Finally there was a shower of sparks: small at first but growing quickly, orange and red, swathed with distinct but fleeting flashes of blue and green. The first report startled Steve, but he continued to drink his beer, his face and clothes warm and brightly illuminated. More reports, varying bangs and ephemeral whistles, the sides of the box dissolving in flames, a
few slow, smoke-sputtering projectiles arcing out of the box on anemic, erratic trajectories. Steve smiled, feeling reckless. Yes, this was good. Screw all of it, a rocket could shoot through his eye for all he cared; it would be better if one did. The sulfur smell of smoke surrounded him, as did the smoke-enlarged haloes of the thrusting embers that dotted the patio.
A series of larger reports, practically explosions, scattered unignited and partially spent missiles all around him. A roman candle that was oriented towards Steve’s chair shot an orange ball just under his right foot, while another discharged a ball into the swimming pool. The shower of sparks continued, possibly intensifying, but Steve’s attention stayed focused on these two, unique ordnance. Every few seconds they would fire, the recoil changing their horizontal angle slightly, and Steve was fascinated when a couple of balls actually skipped off of the water in the pool. Of course, balls had also been skidding under his chair; the first two close, the third impacting the front-right chair leg and angling toward the house. Steve threw his beer at the box and yelled a loud, vowel-punctuated roar in an attempt to muster a personal intensity on par with the spectacle flaming before him. The sound he produced was strangely self-conscious, almost quiet. Steve smiled for no one and then yelled into the flames again. A red ball shot and Steve heard a faint rattle as it struck a crushed beer can under his chair. A moment later the area around his right calf began to burn. But he wasn’t sure, exactly, that his leg was burning and that it wasn’t just some momentary blip in his imagination, until he smelled a different smell, more of a stink, like hair burning, and he saw the bright, almost blinding, flame wedged between the under side of his leg and the chair straps.
Screw it... No... Shit.
Steve rose carefully, took five steps toward the pool, then tripped on the flaming remains of the box. He stumbled a bit further before falling, chest first, in a way that he could not help but equate with a famous baseball player. Steve’s chest struck the cement at the edge of the pool with a thud, but a sluggish roll was all that was necessary for him to slip gently
into the cool water. He could feel the burn sting and tighten as he looked up at the light and shadows dancing against the second floor of his house and at the blackness and stars blurred with blotches of color that still lingered from when he had stared into the flames.
Suddenly, Steve panicked, kicking and flailing with his arms and legs until, after a brief confusion, he relaxed again -- ah yes, it was the pool cover keeping him afloat. Steve laughed to himself and then rolled onto his stomach and urinated into his already soaked pants. It felt good, as did the cool, comforting water, and Steve lingered for a few minutes to enjoy it before returning to his place on the lawn chair.
His leg hurt, he was sure of it, but it hurt in a way that was easily ignored -- except for the moments when he reflected upon what had happened earlier, during which times he actually found solace in the pain. The smoke dissipated slowly while the intensity of the smell remained. The smell made Steve nostalgic for the July 4th’s he had experienced as a child, lost times that pummeled him with regret because of his inability to recapture them. Steve opened another beer, one that, in the first few drinks, tasted far better than the others. He was in the center of it all: the pool, the tent, the smell of fireworks; the sentiment of a circus in its entirety. Yes, nothing went with nostalgia like beer. A few scattered embers
continued to burn; occasional flares of unspent rocket propellant persisted for a few more minutes until, Steve still anticipating the next, no more bursts came.
Again, Steve sat in silence and drank, and as he did his son’s anger intensified in his mind until he felt he must cry -- as if the situation absolutely required some kind of breakdown -- but this breakdown never came.
Instead he enjoyed his beer, becoming more and more drunk until, a couple hours later, the entire day seemed to him like a kind of humorous dream. But eventually even this dream became muddled, muddled in a style that, in its own independent way, was still very humorous, and it was in this confusion that Steve found himself alternating between laughter and tears until, finally, he reached the point where both laughter and tears were combined with a sort of rambling monologue directed toward a son who was not there. Steve shouted into the darkness until he became hoarse, but all he received in reply was the sound of crickets, locusts and a few frogs.
When the time came to vomit, Steve leaned to the side just enough to clear his shoulder. The liquid came out of his stomach and mouth smoothly, almost without effort, except for the minor, mucus-thickened stream that hung in long strands from his nostrils. Even after he had finished, these long, viscous drips continued, as did the slow, thread-like stream of drool that flowed from the corner of his mouth.
Steve awoke long before dawn, tense but not quite alert, his body still fighting to compensate for a stream of alcohol that had ceased to flow through his system. He leaned over and checked the carton: empty -- but there were still opened cans strewn around his chair. Steve wobbled about kicking these cans, and even stopped to pick up and drink from two that produced a deeper, partially-full sound. It was not enough; it was nowhere near enough. He needed to sleep well; his son might be coming tomorrow. He needed the other case.
Steve went into the house and stumbled from room to room. He looked in large drawers, behind curtains, then in places where he knew the case would not fit, like under couch cushions and inside tiny drawers. Because of the discrepancy between the movement in his mind and the actions of his body, this search was slow, faltering, plagued with unfinished steps and sudden leanings that made Steve feel helpless, almost child-like. When, after checking the shower in the master bathroom, he discovered a bottle of green cold medicine still one third full, he drank it greedily. It was good, and it might do the trick, but when it came to avoiding the fear it was best to be sure. A thick layer of crystal-speckled sludge remained at the bottom. Steve retrieved a bottle of mouthwash from under the sink and poured some of it into the cold medicine bottle, then slushed the liquid around to dissolve the sludge. He drank this mixture quickly, stumbled into his bedroom and lay down on his bed. A short time later he was sound asleep.
An intense irritation greeted Steve as the first rays of morning sun shone through the maples outside his window, a faint breeze moving small patches of light and shadow over his face. Even before he opened his eyes he detected a bleak memory, one that he knew, if he made a conscious effort to retrieve it, would certainly manifest itself as a well defined example of regret. His fucking leg hurt for no reason. He had been through this before. The reality of his actions was subjective; if he made no effort to remember them it was possible they would just go away, and this would make him a happier person. His life wasn’t bad, really. It wasn’t painful, and if in fact he could discover some sort of purpose, it would become very good. There were still things that mattered. There was Daniel. There was his wife. They had loved him very much, once. Once everything had been perfect, and maybe, in some strange way, that had been the problem. Steve looked up at the white ceiling fan above him. Could it be that things were better now that there was nothing, now that his life was shit? Yes, yes that was very possible, but it was not the case. Despite his best efforts, total ruin had thus far escaped him, and now he was sick of the decline, the journey, the constant fight to make himself feel better and the constant fear of what would happen when he stopped.
He got up and walked into his closet, pleased that he’d had the foresight not to undress the previous night. The coffee cans were in their normal spot, but they had been drained and the carpet around them had been scrubbed. Steve aimed his urine into the nearest can. Yes, he was sick of this. Maybe he wouldn’t drink today; as sober as he was there was no way he would be able to find the lost case anyway. Maybe he would begin to try to make things right today. It would be difficult, but how hard could it be, he had done it once before.
Steve zipped up and hobbled his way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister and reminded that, if he were to begin these changes, he would have to look after his health first. He opened his front door and stepped out into the bright sunshine of another beautiful Midwestern morning. He breathed deeply and looked around at his yard and at the large trees that surrounded it and at the small patches of his neighbors’ houses that he could see between the trees. He could smell fresh cut grass and hear the sound of a mower in the distance as he slowly wandered the length of his driveway. It was all very good, and Steve paused just a second to enjoy it, to take it all in, before starting his long walk, down the smooth road leading to the carryout.