Jerry - Part 1 - oct. 99
by: R L Stephenson

 

     The alarm goes off at 5:30am. Jerry sticks his arms in to the old terry cloth robe, he slides on a pair of old leather loafers and wanders to the bathroom. Eyes squinting and hurting from the light, he peers in to the mirror and finds a gray haired Jim Morrison from his drunken days looking back at him. He misses the toilet slightly adding to the yellow puddles collecting around the base of the bowl. The smell of asparagus from dinner at the coffee shop fills the room. He edges down the stairs leaving a few wet handprints on the wall marking his trail. He sleepily stumbles to the kitchen. The coffee isn't on the table. Hell, it isn't even made. The cat, meowin' and purrin his ass off, darts back and forth between his legs wanting to be fed. Two garage sale china dishes sit lonely on the floor. Essence of crusty cracked nine lives crawls through the air like a rodent nibblin' at the nostrils, licking the cheese brain. The other dish, with pale lime water rings, calls like the cactus with its last breath to the gods, beggin' to be quenched. He fills them both with out washing, and leaves the unused portion of chicken liver feast uncovered in the fridge.

     Jerry finds the coffee after a twenty-minute search that included a flashlight vigil. Filters were luckily by the brewer, but the ratio of water to coffee slips his mind. He's only used the machine once, and it was about five years ago. He wings it. Plugs it in and watches it brew. The aroma soothes his brain and gets his adrenaline flowing. The steady flow of coffee drippin' in to the pot with steam rolling out of the spout makes him dance around looking for a clean cup. Reaching in to the sink full of dirty dishes, he emerges with a cup. A dried noodle, stuck to the rim, is quickly chipped away with a thumbnail. He rinses it in the sink for a minute. He's determined to enjoy his first attempt at brewed coffee in years. At least he had that. The newspaper stopped delivering cause he didn't pay the bill. Trudy kept the checkbook put away, and he didn't even know the account numbers. He looks at a pile of bills that need attention. They share the box with the junk mail that sits in the spare chair at the kitchen table. Fifty thousand in the bank and he doesn't want to touch it. He wants Trudy to handle the bills.

     Gotta do somethin' today. What to wear is the next dilemma. Checking the laundry basket of rare clean clothes reveals that the underwear missed the load. Crammin' a pile in to the wash is no big deal. The last load only yielded two hot pink undershirts when all was done. A lesson learned. No red clothes with whites unless you want to open your gate the other way. The boys at the plant would think he started subscribin' to the other magazine if he showed up with a pink tee on. He finds a clean pair of coveralls and a bathing suit to wear under them. Fifty-eight's a little late to discover what "o natural" feels like in coveralls. Especially when you're lying on cold concrete under a car. He slips a red and gray flannel shirt over the coveralls and heads outside.

...to be con't