my pocket. I dig it out. “Hey Mike,” I answer.
“Trey. Last time I checked, you owe me a favor.”
“Is that right?” It probably is. I can never remember these things.
“I’ve got to pick up a big load tomorrow. I could use your truck and your manpower.”
“What time?” I ask.
“Late. They’re going to finish up during the day and whatever’s left at the end of the day is mine.”
I turn toward a sound picked up by my unoccupied ear. “All right. Call me tomorrow afternoon.”
“Will do. Thanks, man.”
“I’m just glad we’ll finally be even.”
He hangs up, cutting off his laughter. I end the call and listen. That sound must have been nothing. I’m getting paranoid. I need a drink.
I toss the firewood on the hearth and untie and kick off my boots. When I look up, I notice the mess in the kitchen I was too tired to clean up last night, too tired to clean up this morning. And too tired right now. Being tired has become a disease. Its symptoms range from apathy to complete mental drain. I’m its victim and its expert and I’ve known it’s winning for a long time now, but I can’t be bothered to think my way free of it.
The most unfortunate part is I have an eternity to be tired.
I move to the doorway of the kitchen to stare at the mess. The kitchen faucet drips, and my shoulders sag. That’s the reason I left this morning. I can’t stand another night of that dripping. How could I have forgotten? My lack of focus gets worse every day. It should surprise me, but it doesn’t. Nothing surprises me anymore.
I turn away from the pile of broken dishes, kitchen table on its side, blood splattered on the wall, knife drawer upside down on the floor with knives scattered. I pull my boots back on, drag myself into my truck, and head back to town. I’m barely going to make it before the hardware store closes.
While waiting at a red light at Fifth Street, I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline. It’s that gray Acura again, parked across the intersection on the other side of the street. The car starts to pull away and I know they realize they’ve been spotted. They make a right on Fifth so I turn left and floor my truck in pursuit even though they already have a big lead. The light shines green at the next intersection and I blow through, hoping the next light will change to green before I get there. The red light gets closer but I know I won’t stop. Nothing will make me stop this time. I enter the intersection just as I see another car coming at me from the right. Against my will, my foot slams on the brake, but it’s too late. Metal smashes. My truck sends the red car spinning into the curb where it stops and sways. We’re about twenty feet apart but I can smell the red car’s antifreeze. I smell my burning rubber. I pop the steering wheel with my fist. That gray Acura got away.
I step out of the truck and notice the other driver doubled over as if she’s about to throw up. As I approach, she appears to collect herself and takes a big breath. Here we go.
“Are you insane?!”
“You aren’t the first person to ask me that.” People often mistake the bitterness in my voice for sarcasm and think I’m making a joke, but as soon as the words are out I can see she’s not one of those people.
She throws her hands in the air while shaking her head, her eyes wide. “Did you not realize you had the red?”
“I did realize that. I was hoping you’d see me.” I wonder if she’ll believe I’m telling the truth. People rarely tell the truth when the collision is their fault. What else am I going to say anyway? I’m a bad liar.
Her eyes narrow. “Is this a joke?”
“I wish it was.” Maybe then I’d have something to laugh about for once. I glance at her car. “You’re driving on a donut. No wonder you couldn’t stop in time.”
“Me? Not stop in time?”
I crouch to look at her other tire, hissing as it loses air. “And this one’s worn to hell. You have no tread. Are
“Trey. Last time I checked, you owe me a favor.”
“Is that right?” It probably is. I can never remember these things.
“I’ve got to pick up a big load tomorrow. I could use your truck and your manpower.”
“What time?” I ask.
“Late. They’re going to finish up during the day and whatever’s left at the end of the day is mine.”
I turn toward a sound picked up by my unoccupied ear. “All right. Call me tomorrow afternoon.”
“Will do. Thanks, man.”
“I’m just glad we’ll finally be even.”
He hangs up, cutting off his laughter. I end the call and listen. That sound must have been nothing. I’m getting paranoid. I need a drink.
I toss the firewood on the hearth and untie and kick off my boots. When I look up, I notice the mess in the kitchen I was too tired to clean up last night, too tired to clean up this morning. And too tired right now. Being tired has become a disease. Its symptoms range from apathy to complete mental drain. I’m its victim and its expert and I’ve known it’s winning for a long time now, but I can’t be bothered to think my way free of it.
The most unfortunate part is I have an eternity to be tired.
I move to the doorway of the kitchen to stare at the mess. The kitchen faucet drips, and my shoulders sag. That’s the reason I left this morning. I can’t stand another night of that dripping. How could I have forgotten? My lack of focus gets worse every day. It should surprise me, but it doesn’t. Nothing surprises me anymore.
I turn away from the pile of broken dishes, kitchen table on its side, blood splattered on the wall, knife drawer upside down on the floor with knives scattered. I pull my boots back on, drag myself into my truck, and head back to town. I’m barely going to make it before the hardware store closes.
While waiting at a red light at Fifth Street, I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline. It’s that gray Acura again, parked across the intersection on the other side of the street. The car starts to pull away and I know they realize they’ve been spotted. They make a right on Fifth so I turn left and floor my truck in pursuit even though they already have a big lead. The light shines green at the next intersection and I blow through, hoping the next light will change to green before I get there. The red light gets closer but I know I won’t stop. Nothing will make me stop this time. I enter the intersection just as I see another car coming at me from the right. Against my will, my foot slams on the brake, but it’s too late. Metal smashes. My truck sends the red car spinning into the curb where it stops and sways. We’re about twenty feet apart but I can smell the red car’s antifreeze. I smell my burning rubber. I pop the steering wheel with my fist. That gray Acura got away.
I step out of the truck and notice the other driver doubled over as if she’s about to throw up. As I approach, she appears to collect herself and takes a big breath. Here we go.
“Are you insane?!”
“You aren’t the first person to ask me that.” People often mistake the bitterness in my voice for sarcasm and think I’m making a joke, but as soon as the words are out I can see she’s not one of those people.
She throws her hands in the air while shaking her head, her eyes wide. “Did you not realize you had the red?”
“I did realize that. I was hoping you’d see me.” I wonder if she’ll believe I’m telling the truth. People rarely tell the truth when the collision is their fault. What else am I going to say anyway? I’m a bad liar.
Her eyes narrow. “Is this a joke?”
“I wish it was.” Maybe then I’d have something to laugh about for once. I glance at her car. “You’re driving on a donut. No wonder you couldn’t stop in time.”
“Me? Not stop in time?”
I crouch to look at her other tire, hissing as it loses air. “And this one’s worn to hell. You have no tread. Are
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