Lithium, Chptr. 3 – Xperience Fiction

Lithium, Chptr. 3 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.

Mel’s arms were loaded with Master Burger bags. He cradled a two-liter of soda under his armpit while he cradled his still-warm coffee in the crook of his elbow. In one hand was the mail and in the other was his keychain. He deftly maneuvered the keys and put the right key in the wrong way before correcting himself. Once inside, he set everything on the long table both apartments used for mail and packages.

He rapped on Bernie’s door with the backs of his knuckles. Bernie answered in his bathrobe.

“Hey Mel, just got out of the shower,” he said. “Andy’s upstairs still, I think.”

Mel would have rather Bernie known, but nothing could bring him down at that point.

“I got everyone Master Burger; you for looking out, us for maybe a little celebration.” Mel grabbed two of the bags and shook them like bags of cash stolen from a cartoon bank.

“Oh yeah? Something to celebrate?” Bernie glanced out and over to the rest of the bags on the table,

“Yeah, I’ll get Andy and I’ll tell you guys when we’re eating. Unless you want to eat upstairs?”

“Don’t matter to me,” Bernie said. “But I can’t eat most of that. My stomach would launch an offensive tonight. I’ll have fries in solidarity, I guess.”

Mel held two thumbs up to his wide grin and darted up the stairs to get Andy, who was in the living room rifling through what was likely his homework.

“Come on downstairs, bud. We’re going to eat dinner with Bernie.”

“Did Bernie cook or is it Master Burger?”

“The second.”

Andy sighed. “Okay, I’ll be down.”

Mel made his way to the stairs. Since when did Andy not like Master Burger? It was the standard remedy for all down moments and celebrations, a cholesterol-soaked social currency to mark the great and the terrible. His parents had gotten him Master Burger when he was a child; had they changed the recipe?

Bernie had brought the bags in and sat them on the dining room table. He must have put the soda in the fridge.

“So, good news,” he said. “What do you got?”

“How about a job?”

“Really? That’s fantastic.”

“I have to call the guy tomorrow. He said it’s almost a definite.”

“Almost? So you don’t have it for sure.”

“He needs the guys, and I’m the first one he talked to. I mean it’s not a definite that zombies won’t rise out of the grave, but I leave the house without a machete, you know?”

“That’s true. Well, good for you. So what’s the job?”

“It’s masonry and paving, stuff like that. Backbreaker stuff, but that just gives me lots of time with my thoughts, which I like. At least a thousand bucks worth of work.”

“So not permanent.”

“I don’t need permanent,” Mel said as Andy walked in. “I just need Larry to know I can make a dent in the back rent. Then I’ll have a month to get something more permanent.”

He passed Andy his bag and pulled a Double Master out of Bernie’s bag before sliding it to him.

“And I have one more trick up my sleeve,” Mel said. “Yard sale. Tomorrow. Everything must go. Well, almost everything.”

“I don’t know… isn’t it short notice?”

“What’s there to it? Put up some flyers, write on some cardboard. Move everything we’re going to sell out by the curb and just sit there, give out good deals. It’s just stuff.”

“My stuff, dad?”

“Can you think of anything you don’t play with anymore?”

“I’m eleven. I use things; I don’t play with them,” Andy said. “I have stuff. But I have school tomorrow.”

“I can take you out of school tomorrow. This is important.”

“How about I help ya’, Mel?” Bernie said. “I can carry little stuff, and that lets him go to school while he still can.”

“I guess that’ll work,” Mel said. “I’ve already sold off all the heavy stuff, like my amps, exercise equipment, stuff like that.”

 

They ate Master Burger and for a few minutes, Mel enjoyed time with his son and his neighbor without the threat of imminent catastrophe weighing down the back of his neck. There was a plan. He had a queen back on the board, and he could win the game with just a queen. Hell, he could win with a rook if he was desperate enough.

Mel gathered up the trash and walked it back to the kitchen. His mind was racing with the arrangement of the sale items on tables he had from when he made t-shirts to sell at concerts, an enterprise that didn’t quite pan out. The tables had been handy throughout the years, though. Looking in the dish drain, he thought of offering to wash up for Bernie’s generosity.

“Andy’s upstairs.” Bernie was hanging in the doorway with a glass of presumably soda. “Can I give you some unsolicited advice?”

“Sure. I even might take it.”

“Andy doesn’t look like he’s handling everything well. You might not see it, cause you’re with him all the time, but I can see it. As far as the yard sale, do you need to sell any of his stuff?”

“Did he say something to you?”

“He didn’t have to. I see the kid enough to notice when he’s different. It’s like how I can tell he’s growing more than you can, ‘cause I don’t see him twenty-four-seven, do you know what I mean?”

“I know. But from being with him twenty-four-seven, I know how strong he is, even at eleven.” Mel leaned up against the counter. “You weren’t living here when Debra was living here,” he said. “It was a nightmare every day, even for him. He used to have to fake being sick in order for her to leave him alone. And I worked so much, I had no clue that’s why he was doing it.

“And I wouldn’t have put two and two together had I not gotten fired; well, I quit, but the point is I saw how she treated him – like a set piece in her psychodramas. It was rough on him. I made it a point that I’d make him my partner in everything.”

“Mel, don’t take what I’m saying the wrong way,” Bernie said. “I know how much you love that kid. I mean, it shows every day. But you’ve told me – sort of – about your illness. I know you’ve said that your thoughts can get really far ahead of you. So take what I said as, let’s say, a yellow light.”

Mel felt the anger building up at Bernie, but he was being sincere, so Mel shelved it.

“I’ll keep him out of the yard sale,” Mel said. “Consider me pumping the brake.”

 

***

 

Mel used to love five o’clock in the morning, even though he’d seen it most on the other side of waking up, when his mind burned through the meds and the wee hours gave way to the not so wee, and the current project was splayed out across the living room floor. He never woke Andy during the all-nighters – never woke Debra when she was around, for that matter. But for the past year, his seeing dawn came from the conclusion of a sound sleep.

He got the tables out without much racket and got them outside, but it took time to keep quiet. He knew he’d have to wait until Andy’s and Bernie’s waking hours to get the real set-up going. Aside from that, he wasn’t altogether comfortable with leaving prized possessions out in the open air for anyone to steal, though the only people out at that hour had their hands full walking their dogs.

He sat on the front steps to rest and regroup after getting one of the tables filled with some rather expensive bric-a-brac. It was chilly, but the occasional bellows of the March lion only fought the promise of better weather. He could hear it in the songs of the birds that perched on the powerlines in formation. Mel absorbed himself in their song, in the magic that simple calls back and forth formed a macro melodic beyond the sum of its primordial intention.

His neighbor down the street turned the corner with his Akita. He held a white plastic bag in his hand from the bodega on the corner of Second and Twenty-fifth streets, emblazoned with a cascade of the phrase Thank You! She waved and he nodded and civility was upheld for another day.

The front door creaked open behind him. He turned to see Andy yawning, his upper arm anchoring him to the doorsill.

“Hey kid, it’s only five-thirty. Did I wake you up?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry. I’m still waiting for it to get a little lighter. I figure once Bernie gets up, we can bring more stuff down.”

“You can have my video games,” Andy said. “It’s okay. I don’t play most of them. But can I keep the console, please?”

“Andy, I want you to keep all of your stuff. You don’t need to do this.”

“But I want to help. At least let me stay home.”

“No, you’re going to school. I got this.”

Andy sat down on the steps and held his head in his hands. His face looked a thousand yards long.

“What’s really wrong, bud?” Mel said.

Andy rolled his head to look his dad in the eye.

“This isn’t going to work, is it.”

“What do you mean? We’re going to be okay. This is just going to be… a close call, that’s all.”

“If it doesn’t work out, are you gonna leave me with mom?”

Mel shook his head and contorted his geatures like he’d chewed a lemon. “Oh, God no, never,” he said. “She can’t legally get you. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Andy hopped down the stairs and inspected the bric-a-brac. He held up a guitar pedal.

“You’re selling your guitar stuff?” He said.

“I don’t really play anymore.”

“I do.”

“I’m keeping the guitar,” Mel said. “You don’t need pedals to be good.”

“So why did you buy them?”

“I ain’t no good.” Andy laughed.

“I want to buy this one,” Andy said. “I still have money from my savings.”

Mel knew the pedal he had in his hand, the “Sky Shark,” without having to look over. It was sleek, silver, and if an actual F-16 had been shrunk down and transformed into a guitar pedal, it would look exactly like the Sky Shark. It sounded like shit, but Andy didn’t know that; likely didn’t care.

“Take it; it’s yours.”

 

He sat behind three tables of his and Andy’s life, mostly his. He felt exposed to every passer-by, of which there were few. Twenty-fifth Street was never bustling, but there were businesses, and with businesses came foot traffic, or so that was the hope.

Bernie helped him best he could, and he kept Mel company, going to the bodega every couple of hours for coffee runs. Mel had gone in to piss three times, and he should’ve stayed there, because all his sales came when Bernie had the helm.

At four o’clock, when Bernie suggested that they’d seen the last potential buyer, a stout, unshaven man in a dark grey sweatshirt and jeans perused each table, picking things up and inspecting them, holding them up for a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view.

“You been out here all day?”

“About,” Mel said. “See anything you like?”

“A lot of this stuff isn’t junk. What are you, moving?”

“Trying not to.” Mel got up and slid one of his pewter dragons up front. He had hopes for a solid sale.

“Well anyways, how much for all of it?”

“All of it?”

“What I said.” The man drew up for a handshake. “Pete Willis. I normally clear out estates, but damned if this doesn’t look like an estate. I wouldn’t mind taking it off your hands. What’s your price?”

Mel looked over the collection. He had hoped to double the amount he’d have when the job came through. A thousand for Larry upfront and a thousand to make up some back when he got paid. He knew a straight offer would come in under that. He needed a strong anchor figure.

“I was hoping to get eight hundred for everything if I sold them separate,” he said.

Peter cupped his chin and twisted his wrist, distorting the skin of his face.

“I can’t even come close to that and make money off it. Can you do better?”

Mel’s eyes darted at his possessions, some prized, some historic. “I guess I could do seven hundred.”

“I’ll tell you what. I wasn’t going to pay more than three, but I’ll do three-fifty. But I get the tables, too.”

“I can’t go that low. I really need the money.”

Pete walked down the row. “Answer me this; how much have you sold here today?”

“I’ve sold some things.”

“A couple things, right?”

“Yeah… a few.”

“You put this stuff out here every day for a month, you might come close to seven hundred, or you might not. You’ll probably start lowering your prices to get sales. I’m offering you three-fifty that you get in your hands right now and be done with it. You won’t even have to bring the stuff back inside. Do you have a month to wait on money?”

Mel hated people like Peter, usually because he always got screwed by people like Peter. But Larry wasn’t going to listen to plea one without a few hundred bucks in his hand. It wasn’t a thousand, but he was too desperate to turn it down.

“Can I ask for four-hundred, with the tables?”

Pete let out a breath before pulling his wallet from his pocket and rifling through the bills. Mel felt the breeze tickle a moist forehead.

“Okay, I guess I could swing that. Four hundred. But for that, you gotta help me get everything in the truck.” He held four hundred dollars out and Mel took it, chalking the extra fifty dollars up to a win amid the loss.

 

***

 

Mel sat in his favorite chair on the back porch after dinner, watching Andy in the backyard doing gymnastics, which amounted to jumping jacks and half somersaults. The yard was barely big enough to contain eleven-year-old energy, but it was a comfortable domain. He wanted so desperately to keep it. He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out four hundred dollars, then lifted one leg to reach his wallet, where he pulled out two hundred more, what was left over from the money he got from Terrence. It was a good amount, but not the eight hundred and fifty that was his rent, and it certainly wasn’t three months back.

ArTechnic was a good job. He’d risen to supervisor so fast, not even two months, and kept that for six years. He had Debra and Andy and even though the apartment was small, it was filled with the kind of warmth that would just disperse in a mansion. They were happy. He thought that all the way up until he heard Debra on the phone with the man he later found out was Sam, a meth-dealer on parole.

The topic of Debra tore him, mostly because he knew he added a couple of blasting caps to their collapse. He told himself Debra was why he quit ArTechnic and had to job-hop for two years, but he was already slipping on the job. He stopped caring; not over any personal grievance, but he stopped finding even a shred of enthusiasm about going in. No one would ever consider that an excuse for missing time, not with a wife and kid at home, but it was just the beginning of his downturn.

His doctor called it depression, clinical. Mel called it the final revealing of his failure as a human being. And he’d felt it before, in the college that he never graduated from. And the high school at which he went mostly friendless. And at the prom and the dances he never attended because he hadn’t the guts to ask even one girl out. And a thousand times he missed the mark of success. Guilt and anxiety formed the two-stroke engine that powered his dark moments.

He took a sip from the beer can he brought out on the porch. He wasn’t supposed to have it on his meds, but he’d discovered one can didn’t do anything but calm him down a bit. He couldn’t wallow in the past and front-load his mind with garbage and doubt. He had six-hundred dollars, and with a call, a thousand in a few days. And his landlord would likely be stopping by that night, if not the next day for the actual eviction. Hopefully not the next day; it would be even harder to negotiate. Maybe he should give Larry a call after he called Roger and knew dead certain what was up.

He had to make something work. He checked his watch; six-thirty-five. He eased himself off the chair and went into the kitchen to grab his phone from the table. Roger’s card was in one of the credit card slots on the inside of the phone case. He stared at the card, trying to glean anything to give him an edge. More ritual than practicality; it was Schrodinger’s job – he both had it and didn’t have it so long as he didn’t call.

He tapped out the number and waited. One, two, three rings – he prayed it wouldn’t go to voicemail. On the fourth ring, Roger answered.

“Hey, who’s this?” Roger said.

“Hey Roger, it’s Mel. You told me you’d call me tonight.”

“I did? Oh yeah, I did. About the work, right?”

“Yup. Are we a go with that?”

“Bad news, man,” Roger said. “The developer’s got a legal thing going on, some kind of environmental group, last-minute kind of thing, a judge, I don’t know… some bullshit. But they got to figure it out before I’ll need anybody. I can let you know when that all clears up. I got your number now.”

“Aw man, that sucks,” Mel said. “I’m kind of in a bind right now. I was really counting on that. Do you have any other work you can give me?”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything until I had a full green light. As it is, I gotta shuffle my guys around into other gigs, and we’re talking seniority and everything. I mean I can keep an eye out for you with other contractors.”

Mel felt the blood leaving his face, leaving a fine mist of sweat in its wake.

“Okay, thanks, Roger. I appreciate it.”

“Chin up, buddy.”

“Yeah.” Mell hung up before he said something that could turn out to be job-blocking. He was burned; Roger shouldn’t have counted chickens. And he shouldn’t have recounted them. Now he had to go to Larry with six hundred dollars and over two grand worth of pleas and promises.

He sat at the kitchen table and looked around, trying to minimize every memory that the four walls had absorbed, every good meal and every noteworthy culinary disaster, every homework breakthrough and every fight over the grocery bill. Make the memories less than they were so they’d be easier to walk away from in case Larry’s heart didn’t grow three sizes bigger overnight.

Andy came in the room at a half-skip, visibly sweating. He pulled open the refrigerator door and reach for a pitcher of orange juice, not the most refreshing of beverages, but the only one in there.

“I did a full somersault,” Andy said. “Did you see it?”

“Nah, kid, I was on the phone. I’m proud of you though.”

Andy grabbed a stool to reach the cupboard where the glasses were. He was short, like his mother, and was due for a growth spurt, Mel got up and steadied him with a hand on his back.

“I got it, dad,” Andy said.

“I know, just don’t want you to wipe out, that’s all.”

Andy filled the glass and put the OJ back before sitting in the chair opposite Mel’s.

“Are we getting evicted tomorrow?” Andy asked.

“I hope not,” Mel said. “But I have to be honest with you. We might.”

“Where are we going to sleep?”

“If we get evicted, I have enough for a motel until we can figure something else out. You liked staying at the motel in Quincey when we went to Massachusetts with your mom, right?”

“I got to watch whatever I wanted on cable.” Andy said. “I watched scary movies all night.”

“Okay, well, if, and I mean if we get evicted, I’ll give you the remote, and you can pick whatever we watch. And we’ll have to eat out every night, so that’s cool, right?”

“That is pretty cool.”

Mel reached across the table and took Andy’s free hand in his.

“We will always be okay, no matter what. You hear me?”

Andy shook his head, and Mel set his mind to fulfilling his promise.

 

 

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