Her hand grazes the back of his neck to let him know that she is there, he jumps anyways. She wraps her arms around his waist and rests her head against his back. His hands remain locked to the countertop and his breath quickens. She slides her hands up his chest and hooks her fingers into the clavicles. He can feel her breath tickling his neck, causing shivers to race down his spine. Frozen, he doesn't know what to do so he stands completely still. She traces his torso with her fingers.
Her hands follow his lines from his shoulders down his arms, ignoring the cuffed long sleeves her hands flow down his forearms and fingers intertwine with his. Retracing her movements her hands end where they started, around his waist. Her hands get fistfuls of his shirt and she starts to pull up.
He lets her.
She runs her hand up his bare chest and his shirt is released more from his jeans with each inch. Around the sides of his chest her hands travel and grab onto his lats and she takes him and turns him around. She looks into his face and his eyes are still squeezed shut. Gently she places her hands framing his face; his features soften at her touch. She stands on her toes and kisses him gently on the lips.
"Where's your bedroom," she whispers.
She takes his hand and leads him up the stairs, her jeans sweeping the treads with each step, his hand still in hers. He never speaks and by the layout of the house she determines which room is his, picking the one that she would have chosen. She pushes open the door and leads him to the bed. Her hands take each button and slide it through its hole. Each movement with grace and a building anticipation, she pushes his shirt over his shoulders. He is not as skinny as she thought, and she can see his nipples get hard from the chill in the air. Undoing his belt she slides it through the loops, slithering it lands on the floor with a clank. The fly on his jeans unbutton with a single pull, and she pushes them over his hips and they gather at his feet.
He stands there fully aroused with a pair of briefs on, white against his whiter skin. She takes his hands in hers and places them on her breasts as she slides her hoodie off of her shoulders. He doesn't move. She looks him in the eyes with a smile as she unbuttons her jeans and lets them fall to the floor. Stepping away she turns down the covers. Crossing her arms in front of her she grabs her tank top and raises her arms above her head exposing her breasts. She slides into the bed and gestures for Adam to lie next to her.
_____________
He slides under the sheet, it is dark so he navigates by touch. Straddling the body he reaches on his side and feels the steel that hangs there. The table is hard and cold beneath his knees. Which should he take today, another left? He reaches across his body and grabs her hand as if meeting her for the first time and with his right grips the saw. Tracing the wrist with his fingers he feels for where the carpals meet the radius and ulna. Turning her hand he runs the blade over her wrist and feels the blood ooze between his fingers. She is still warm, but has chilled to room temperature. He has twenty minutes before the body is to be removed and sent to the coroner where all unclaimed bodies reside waiting for information, any information to help identify the body.
The gel like blood pools at his knees and he can feel it soaking through to his skin. He cuts. He is through the flesh and feels for the separation of bones with the blade of the saw. It is always easier to cut through cartilage. Fourty-seven pulls of the blade, the last one only took thirty-three, he wonders why this one took more, she was younger, maybe less deterioration due to age.
He reaches into his back pocket and feels for the Ziploc that he tucked back there. Unzipping the bag he places her hand in and slides out from under the blanket. Walking out the door he heads straight for the lockers to change out of his blood stained clothes. He passes his supervisors window and gives a nod, slipping by without incident.
_____________
A beam of light shines across his eyes, the change causes him to shift and wake up. Squinting he looks at the clock and rolls over to his nightstand. He slides open the drawer and places his hand on the worn wooden grip.
He hears her breathing.
Sliding the drawer closed he rolls back over and watches her sleep in the morning light. Her arm lies above the covers and he starts tracing her fingers, following the tendons on the inside of her wrist. He follows the outline of a coffee stain on her arm and watches as her eyes open and smile at him. He leans over and gently kisses her lips, again.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Adam Smith - Part 3
The smell of her filled his senses as she squeezed in between him and the door. Without asking she made her way to his sofa, curled up in the corner and was absorbed by its comfort. Adam set his bag down at the foot of the stairs and pushed the button to turn on the lamp. Light flooded the room but cast a shadow where Laney was sitting. Her bare feet were dusted with dirt from wearing her flip-flops all day, which were askew on the floor under the coffee table. The polish on her toes was chipped and the remaining color was enhanced by one stray beam of light. Knees pulled to her chest, she sat with her chin on her folded arms.
"Would you like something to drink? I'm getting a water."
"That would be nice…thank you."
Adam walks slowly passed the couch and sees the shift of color where the suede kept her handprint as a momentary token. As if it wanted to remember her touch as much as he longed to feel it on him. Walking through the living room, through a pair of ancient pocket doors that he just got to work again, into to the dining room, he swung open the door to the kitchen. Not bothering to turn on the light he opened the refrigerator. The triangle of light grew and spread its fingers grabbing at the pots hung above the stove. His shadow dancing amongst the white light, a brief glimpse of the potential horrors that lurk in the depths of his soul. He grabs too bottles of Zephyrhills and as he closes the door you can hear the squeak of the hinges briefly before the compressor kicks on.
Cracking the seal of the cap to the water, he hands her the bottle, already forming a layer of condensation on it. She leans forward to take it from his hand and as she does her sweatshirt falls open. White tank top with no appearance of a bra, he glances up at her to make sure that he wasn't caught glancing at her breasts. He takes a step back and sits on the edge of the couch, as far away from her as possible, without seeming uncomfortable. The coaster he grabs is a square ceramic with the image of an American flag; he sets his bottle down in the center and spins it around until the label is facing him. The cap is placed on the right side of the coaster, and he adjusts it with his finger as he forces himself to pull away from his neurosis.
"Um, you said that you wanted to talk? What can I help you with?"
"Can we just sit her for a few minutes? Is that okay?"
"Sure."
He watches as she curls her toes and removes the remaining polish off of her right big one, each piece discarded on the floor. They sit and he never reaches for his drink. Sipping hers she rests it on the tops of her feet and twists the bottom around in the little puddle of water that has formed.
She stands so abruptly that he jumps in his seat a little.
"I need to pee, where is your bathroom?"
"The door under the stairs, right over there."
The skin between her shirt and jeans shows itself as she walks passed and he can see just the smallest hint of pink and grey just below her waistline.
"Don't listen while I pee."
"Okay," he says. How can he not listen, the bathroom is ten feet away and the house is dead silent except for the shuffle of the bottom of her jeans being drug across the floor. He gets up and puts a coaster under her empty bottle of water and wipes up the ring that was left. He sits back down and tries to disappear into the couch. The toilet flushes and he thinks, "Hmmm, I didn't hear her pee."
As she wiggles the door handle to try to get out, he remembered that he forgot to tell her how to push down on the door to open it. Just as he is about to say something the door swings open with too much force and bangs into the stop on the wall.
"Sorry."
"No worries, I still do that."
He is sitting with his back upright and his legs at a ninety-degree angle, he couldn't look more uncomfortable. Trying to find something to do with his hands he puts one on the armrest and drapes one over the back of the couch. Laney walks up and gives him a glance with a little smile and sits down beside him. In a fluid motion her feet are on the couch and her head is in his lap. Frozen, he looks down and has no idea what to do. Without looking she reaches up behind her and pulls his arm down and intertwines her fingers with his.
It has been long enough for his arm to fall asleep, but he didn't want to move, he didn't want to not have her touching him. So he sits and watches her from above. With his free right hand he brushes the hair off of her face and traces the lines down her cheeks made from the mascara.
"You think I am pretty, don't you?"
With a slight stutter, "Uh, yes I do." His heart quickens, and he can feel his blood pumping. That fear that every boy gets as he is asked to go to the board in front of the class, races through his consciousness. Please don't get an erection, but it is uncontrollable. Every boy knows you can wish it, scream it in your head, but there is nothing you can do about it, it is inevitable. He feels it pulsing and there is not a chance that she doesn't feel it too.
"Would you like some more water?" he says as he lifts up her head and scoots out from under her. "I'll be right back."
He traverses the floor to the kitchen with a nervous quickness, stumbling on the leg of a chair in the dining room falling through the swinging door. Heart racing he stands with his hands against the counter, a bead of sweat runs from his temple to his jaw and drops on the back of his hand.
He is so focused on the beating in his ears and the pounding in his chest he doesn't hear Laney shuffling across the floor dragging the hems of her jeans that have frayed down to ragged half moons. He does not hear the kitchen door swing open and with his eyes closed tight he does not see the faint light fill the room.
She stands and watches him lit like a modern Rembrandt, then steps too him.
"Would you like something to drink? I'm getting a water."
"That would be nice…thank you."
Adam walks slowly passed the couch and sees the shift of color where the suede kept her handprint as a momentary token. As if it wanted to remember her touch as much as he longed to feel it on him. Walking through the living room, through a pair of ancient pocket doors that he just got to work again, into to the dining room, he swung open the door to the kitchen. Not bothering to turn on the light he opened the refrigerator. The triangle of light grew and spread its fingers grabbing at the pots hung above the stove. His shadow dancing amongst the white light, a brief glimpse of the potential horrors that lurk in the depths of his soul. He grabs too bottles of Zephyrhills and as he closes the door you can hear the squeak of the hinges briefly before the compressor kicks on.
Cracking the seal of the cap to the water, he hands her the bottle, already forming a layer of condensation on it. She leans forward to take it from his hand and as she does her sweatshirt falls open. White tank top with no appearance of a bra, he glances up at her to make sure that he wasn't caught glancing at her breasts. He takes a step back and sits on the edge of the couch, as far away from her as possible, without seeming uncomfortable. The coaster he grabs is a square ceramic with the image of an American flag; he sets his bottle down in the center and spins it around until the label is facing him. The cap is placed on the right side of the coaster, and he adjusts it with his finger as he forces himself to pull away from his neurosis.
"Um, you said that you wanted to talk? What can I help you with?"
"Can we just sit her for a few minutes? Is that okay?"
"Sure."
He watches as she curls her toes and removes the remaining polish off of her right big one, each piece discarded on the floor. They sit and he never reaches for his drink. Sipping hers she rests it on the tops of her feet and twists the bottom around in the little puddle of water that has formed.
She stands so abruptly that he jumps in his seat a little.
"I need to pee, where is your bathroom?"
"The door under the stairs, right over there."
The skin between her shirt and jeans shows itself as she walks passed and he can see just the smallest hint of pink and grey just below her waistline.
"Don't listen while I pee."
"Okay," he says. How can he not listen, the bathroom is ten feet away and the house is dead silent except for the shuffle of the bottom of her jeans being drug across the floor. He gets up and puts a coaster under her empty bottle of water and wipes up the ring that was left. He sits back down and tries to disappear into the couch. The toilet flushes and he thinks, "Hmmm, I didn't hear her pee."
As she wiggles the door handle to try to get out, he remembered that he forgot to tell her how to push down on the door to open it. Just as he is about to say something the door swings open with too much force and bangs into the stop on the wall.
"Sorry."
"No worries, I still do that."
He is sitting with his back upright and his legs at a ninety-degree angle, he couldn't look more uncomfortable. Trying to find something to do with his hands he puts one on the armrest and drapes one over the back of the couch. Laney walks up and gives him a glance with a little smile and sits down beside him. In a fluid motion her feet are on the couch and her head is in his lap. Frozen, he looks down and has no idea what to do. Without looking she reaches up behind her and pulls his arm down and intertwines her fingers with his.
It has been long enough for his arm to fall asleep, but he didn't want to move, he didn't want to not have her touching him. So he sits and watches her from above. With his free right hand he brushes the hair off of her face and traces the lines down her cheeks made from the mascara.
"You think I am pretty, don't you?"
With a slight stutter, "Uh, yes I do." His heart quickens, and he can feel his blood pumping. That fear that every boy gets as he is asked to go to the board in front of the class, races through his consciousness. Please don't get an erection, but it is uncontrollable. Every boy knows you can wish it, scream it in your head, but there is nothing you can do about it, it is inevitable. He feels it pulsing and there is not a chance that she doesn't feel it too.
"Would you like some more water?" he says as he lifts up her head and scoots out from under her. "I'll be right back."
He traverses the floor to the kitchen with a nervous quickness, stumbling on the leg of a chair in the dining room falling through the swinging door. Heart racing he stands with his hands against the counter, a bead of sweat runs from his temple to his jaw and drops on the back of his hand.
He is so focused on the beating in his ears and the pounding in his chest he doesn't hear Laney shuffling across the floor dragging the hems of her jeans that have frayed down to ragged half moons. He does not hear the kitchen door swing open and with his eyes closed tight he does not see the faint light fill the room.
She stands and watches him lit like a modern Rembrandt, then steps too him.
Adam Smith - Part 2
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 an 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.
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 an 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.
Adam Smith - Part 1
The moon was peeking through the trees leaving shadows of reaching fingers, outstretched trying to find the fear in all of us. Adam was walking down the side of the road and trying to tell when a car was coming by the light from the headlights bouncing off of the reflectors on his shoes before it was close enough to cast a definitive shadow. The damp evening carried the sound of the engines to him before his light show started. His JanSport backpack was thrown over his shoulder, the fray from the tattered strap tickling his neck, his hand constantly swatting at the imaginary bug. Head hung low and left thumb out he had been passed by six times in the past five minutes, two Ford trucks, one Chevy, and three sedans, none of which he could make out the model, but all Dodges, he had been counting. He heard the Jake Brake before the running lights crested the hill and new he would finally get a ride.
"Truckers always give rides" he said, laughing because he was talking out loud to himself. What was that saying - talking to yourself is the first sign of senility? He turned around to walk backwards, tilted up his hat so his face could be seen, and raised up his right arm thumb held high.
"They never stop close do they?" he said, laughing again. He had to jog to get to the rumbling engine. The yellows and purples and blues from the running lights illuminated the step as he grabbed the chrome handle and opened the door.
"Where you headed this late hour, young man?"
"Home I guess." He hated being called young, it would help later in life but when you are twenty five and look sixteen it gets old.
"And where would home be?"
"Just on the Westside of town, if you're getting on I-10 you pass right by my street."
"Looks like I am dropping you off at your street. My name is Walter Higginbotham, but you can call me Walt."
"I'm Adam Smith, it's nice to meet you Walt."
"Climb on in, make yourself comfy, I'll get you home in a jiffy."
The cab reeked of fast food, and Adam could see the remnants of probably the past weeks worth of meals. Breakfast McDonald's wrappers, lunch from Chick-fil-a, and dinners from Arby's all crumbled up at his feet. He had seen worse but, he still kept his bag on his lap instead of setting it on the floor.
"Nice hat. I love Calvin and Hobbes; it's a damn shame that man stopped writing that comic. Calvin reminded me of my son when he was a kid. Man they grow up so fast, I know it's a cliché but it's true, what can I say?"
He almost forgot about it, did he take the hat? Why did he feel the need to take the hat? He took it off and looked at it, red brim, and black cap with a little blonde headed boy in black shorts and a red and black striped shirt. His expression was one of childish mischief.
"Yeah this is one of my favorites; my best friend gave it to me a long time ago."
He put it back on for the second time as if it had been the thousandth. He grabbed the seat belt and strapped himself into a vehicle with a man that only knew his name and his face. Staring out the window he saw what he has seen every night for the past four years, he was either walking or had hitched a ride, but the scenery has never changed. On his left, the Peninsular bug man flashing and turning and spraying the scared bug. On his right was the W.W. Gay mechanical contractors, "Who doesn't giggle at that sign," he thought, "Who's last name is Gay? Why wouldn't you change it?" Neighborhood lights, random streets, every night he sees the same thing and the conversations are always the same. Weather, it's always weather, he never seems to be in the cars long enough to break through to more interesting conversation. So he sits there and listens and nods and says how it is hot or cold or too wet or too dry. Every night it is the same.
Except this night, this guy, Walt, asked him about his hat. Why did he have this hat on? He couldn't remember.
"This is me." Adam said.
Walt pulled a knob, his flashers went on and he started to slow down. Adam could feel and hear the tires go over the ridges on the side of the road, put there to wake up the drivers that were starting to drift. As he hopped out he told himself he was going to look up how they cut those things into the asphalt.
"G'night Walt, it was nice meeting you, thanks for the ride."
"Not a problem son, get home safe, and be careful."
Adam turned and hopped the metal railing stepping into the tall grass. His pants damp from the knees down. He patted his backpack and tossed it back over his shoulder. He stepped on the stones in the ditch so his shoes didn't get wet, walked up to a fence and squeezed through where he cut out one link. Mr. Polk had is television on too loud again, he could hear it as he passed by the window. Was that Jimmy or Conan, all he could hear was studio laughter? He spun the clothes line as he walked past it, Mrs. Polk had left her unmentionables out to dry over night again. He crossed the street and walked up his front steps. His door had two locks with two different keys. Adam reached in his right pocket and pulled out the key for the top lock. Slid it in and saw in his mind the mechanism working, matching up with the bumps on his key allowing the lock to turn. He put that key back in his right pocket and pulled out the key for the lower lock from his left. He always kept the keys in their respective pockets, it was easier to remember which went to which lock.
He turned the handle, thought about how he needed to lubricate the door, like he has for the past four years, turned around and locked it and walked upstairs. He had to duck once he got to the top step; he only hit his head once on the ceiling but, once was enough. He wasn't tall but apparently whoever designed the house was really short. He turned and walked up the second flight of stairs that led to the converted attic. Stepping up the stairs the purple carpet turned into hardwood floors as he reached the top.
Unzipping his bag he pulled out the Ziploc, a two gallon bag with a red and white zipper on it. He took of the hat and flung it into the corner. "Why did I take the hat?" He had never taken any other trophy, but tonight he had taken that stupid hat. There was a low hum as the freezer compressor kicked on, he turned and walked toward it. He looked at the Ziploc; the blood had already started to congeal. He opened the freezer and added to his collection, five rights, this would be the third left hand and the first with a wedding band, he has been counting.
"Truckers always give rides" he said, laughing because he was talking out loud to himself. What was that saying - talking to yourself is the first sign of senility? He turned around to walk backwards, tilted up his hat so his face could be seen, and raised up his right arm thumb held high.
"They never stop close do they?" he said, laughing again. He had to jog to get to the rumbling engine. The yellows and purples and blues from the running lights illuminated the step as he grabbed the chrome handle and opened the door.
"Where you headed this late hour, young man?"
"Home I guess." He hated being called young, it would help later in life but when you are twenty five and look sixteen it gets old.
"And where would home be?"
"Just on the Westside of town, if you're getting on I-10 you pass right by my street."
"Looks like I am dropping you off at your street. My name is Walter Higginbotham, but you can call me Walt."
"I'm Adam Smith, it's nice to meet you Walt."
"Climb on in, make yourself comfy, I'll get you home in a jiffy."
The cab reeked of fast food, and Adam could see the remnants of probably the past weeks worth of meals. Breakfast McDonald's wrappers, lunch from Chick-fil-a, and dinners from Arby's all crumbled up at his feet. He had seen worse but, he still kept his bag on his lap instead of setting it on the floor.
"Nice hat. I love Calvin and Hobbes; it's a damn shame that man stopped writing that comic. Calvin reminded me of my son when he was a kid. Man they grow up so fast, I know it's a cliché but it's true, what can I say?"
He almost forgot about it, did he take the hat? Why did he feel the need to take the hat? He took it off and looked at it, red brim, and black cap with a little blonde headed boy in black shorts and a red and black striped shirt. His expression was one of childish mischief.
"Yeah this is one of my favorites; my best friend gave it to me a long time ago."
He put it back on for the second time as if it had been the thousandth. He grabbed the seat belt and strapped himself into a vehicle with a man that only knew his name and his face. Staring out the window he saw what he has seen every night for the past four years, he was either walking or had hitched a ride, but the scenery has never changed. On his left, the Peninsular bug man flashing and turning and spraying the scared bug. On his right was the W.W. Gay mechanical contractors, "Who doesn't giggle at that sign," he thought, "Who's last name is Gay? Why wouldn't you change it?" Neighborhood lights, random streets, every night he sees the same thing and the conversations are always the same. Weather, it's always weather, he never seems to be in the cars long enough to break through to more interesting conversation. So he sits there and listens and nods and says how it is hot or cold or too wet or too dry. Every night it is the same.
Except this night, this guy, Walt, asked him about his hat. Why did he have this hat on? He couldn't remember.
"This is me." Adam said.
Walt pulled a knob, his flashers went on and he started to slow down. Adam could feel and hear the tires go over the ridges on the side of the road, put there to wake up the drivers that were starting to drift. As he hopped out he told himself he was going to look up how they cut those things into the asphalt.
"G'night Walt, it was nice meeting you, thanks for the ride."
"Not a problem son, get home safe, and be careful."
Adam turned and hopped the metal railing stepping into the tall grass. His pants damp from the knees down. He patted his backpack and tossed it back over his shoulder. He stepped on the stones in the ditch so his shoes didn't get wet, walked up to a fence and squeezed through where he cut out one link. Mr. Polk had is television on too loud again, he could hear it as he passed by the window. Was that Jimmy or Conan, all he could hear was studio laughter? He spun the clothes line as he walked past it, Mrs. Polk had left her unmentionables out to dry over night again. He crossed the street and walked up his front steps. His door had two locks with two different keys. Adam reached in his right pocket and pulled out the key for the top lock. Slid it in and saw in his mind the mechanism working, matching up with the bumps on his key allowing the lock to turn. He put that key back in his right pocket and pulled out the key for the lower lock from his left. He always kept the keys in their respective pockets, it was easier to remember which went to which lock.
He turned the handle, thought about how he needed to lubricate the door, like he has for the past four years, turned around and locked it and walked upstairs. He had to duck once he got to the top step; he only hit his head once on the ceiling but, once was enough. He wasn't tall but apparently whoever designed the house was really short. He turned and walked up the second flight of stairs that led to the converted attic. Stepping up the stairs the purple carpet turned into hardwood floors as he reached the top.
Unzipping his bag he pulled out the Ziploc, a two gallon bag with a red and white zipper on it. He took of the hat and flung it into the corner. "Why did I take the hat?" He had never taken any other trophy, but tonight he had taken that stupid hat. There was a low hum as the freezer compressor kicked on, he turned and walked toward it. He looked at the Ziploc; the blood had already started to congeal. He opened the freezer and added to his collection, five rights, this would be the third left hand and the first with a wedding band, he has been counting.
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