THIRTY-FOUR
“Maybe it’s time you hung it up,” Barry suggests, without looking up from the well-worn Robert Jordan novel that I’ve seen him read at least three times.
“Oh, yeah, that’ll happen,” I sneer. I fling my coat onto a chair, and heave my body onto the couch next to him. I’m completely exhausted. “Do we have any more weed?” I ask.
Barry hands me a roach that was a badly rolled joint in a previous incarnation, and I light it, wincing at the hideous taste.
“I can’t make money at any of these new clubs,” I sigh.
“Angels was your groove,” he replies.
“Fuck that place!” I say sharply. “Angels is a whorehouse.”
Now he does look up. “They’re all whorehouses, baby. When are you gonna realize that?”
“So you keep saying.” I take a deep breath. “Barry, you and I need to talk.”
He rolls his eyes, shuts the book and straightens in his seat. He assumes an exaggerated posture and stares at me expectantly. “What?”
“The thing is,” I begin. “Nothing’s come in now for almost a month. I was losing money while Alannah was here. Now I’m burning through my savings.”
“I told you she was gonna take you for a ride,” he says. He crosses his legs and uncrosses them. They’re gangly – too long for his body.
“Right… Okay, so this isn’t actually about Alannah,” I say. “Barry, I really need you to get a job.”
“You know, there are other gigs out there besides stripping.”
“This isn’t about whether I can make money or not. I’ve been taking care of you for years. You’re a grown man. It’s not fair.”
He blows cigarette smoke out the side of his mouth. “You thought about bartending?”
I tap my fingers on the coffee table and suck my teeth. After a minute or two of this pregnant silence, Barry picks up his paperback and opens it again.
“You don’t…” I trail off and then begin once more in wonder. “This is never gonna change, is it?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Barry, I’m talking to you.”
“I HEAR YOU!” he explodes, throwing the book across the room. It ricochets off the wall and lands in the middle of the floor with its spine split.
I bite my lip. “Okay, Barry, you have to go.”
“Fuck you,” he dismisses me.
“Do I need to call the cops again?”
He moves from the couch and stands over me. It’s a jailhouse threat. I take the bait, pulling myself up to my full height. We glower at each other.
“Do you know what a pain in the ass it is to deal with you?” he seethes. “You’re the reason I can’t get a job. Maybe if you’d quit nagging me so much, I could handle the stress of looking for work!”
“Bullshit!”
He’s too close. I push him off-balance, and start to walk away towards the telephone. He sees where I’m headed and shoves me in the other direction. I fly backwards. My head hits the corner of the coffee table.
“MotherFUCKER!” I squawk. When the pain hits, it starts as a slow throb, and then spreads until my eyeballs ache.
“Oh, Christ,” Barry says, all the anger instantly draining itself from his face. “Baby, you okay?” He gets down on his knees in front of me and goes to touch the back of my head. “I’ll get you some ice.”
I slap his hand away and close my eyes. “Please just go,” I whisper. I sink all the way down onto the living room floor, pressing my face to the cold wood.
He complies. I can hear him rustling around the room, ostensibly collecting his things. A few minutes later, the door to the apartment bangs shut.
I wait until I’m positive he’s not coming back before I’ll allow the tears to start.
Continue reading:
| « Previous: THIRTY-THREE | Next: THIRTY-FIVE » |
Subscribe via RSS
Subscribe via email