ShortFiction2

The clock ticked away, eating at his thinning edges, dragging time over the lip of the abyss, link by link. He couldn�t sleep away the hours, as much as he tried to make them die. A dull gray slid through his bedroom window, streaked with greasy runnels of early November rain. No, he didn�t want to think, didn�t want to be in this dingy one-bedroom cracker box, on this cold bed dank with his sweat. With the pasty log stuck to his right side.

   He had fallen, four months ago, from the eaves of a house as he was nailing shingles to the roof. He was independent, so no workman�s comp or insured medical costs for him. Just a compound fracture of his upper leg and "So, long buddy. Call us when you�re healthy. Two more months in this thigh-high cast and work would be snowed out until March. He�d used all his savings and was two months behind on the truck payments, the apartment rent, and the grocer bill. The delivered groceries still came on the strength of his credit card, but that would end.

   Depression soaked through his skin and sat with a heavy lump in his stomach. His hands tightened into tight fists as he stared at the plaster ceiling. He was in a coal car hurtling along in a black tunnel toward a chasm in the earth. He couldn�t find the brake lever. No money, none to come. And his leg went on blindly itching like it was under an army of swarming ants.

   He was sweating in the damp air. He felt empty like a broken balloon. His mother was dead. The only person who had ever hugged him to warm shoulders and kissed him on the cheek like he meant something to her. He could remember her gentle humor and her sweet smell, like home-baked bread. His father had called him last Friday. "Your Mom is dead." Just like that. Something that had fallen and gone splat on the floor. His father didn�t want him at the funeral, if it meant lending him money. "Stay at home, son. Too many damn people will show up, anyway." That was the conversation. No asking how his leg was doing, how he was doing. Just "long distance costs money and the meter�s ticking." And, then, his father was gone.

   He was nowhere in his life and had no place to go. He just existed from day to day. He couldn�t find a plan he could grow with. Minimal skills and neck deep in a hole he couldn�t climb out of with a ladder he owned himself. There seemed to be no point in keeping on, slipping and sliding down on his back like an upturned beetle, waving its legs in the air. He had no respect for himself, no worth that he could find. Nobody would miss him if he was gone. There was a sharp knife in the kitchen. He was so numb to the world that the cutting wouldn�t hurt. He could have some peace from his tasteless life

   The doorbell rang. The chimes sent him bolt-upright. He wanted them to go away, he thought, but he climbed stiffly off the bed and pulled his crutches to him. He got into a standing position and began to make his way to the living room and the front door. The doorbell rang again. "Wait, I�m coming," he shouted hoarsely. "I�m coming, oh, please wait," he whispered in his heart.

   He opened the door wide and found a short, petite woman standing in the hallway with a red net gunny sack over her shoulder. She had frosted blond hair that curled at her shoulders and wide, crystal blue iris eyes that looked at him warmly. She was wearing a light brown, medium length skirt and a dark brown felt jacket. He didn�t look down at her shoes. He didn�t want to scare her away. Good afternoon, sir," she said in a low, breathy voice. "I�m here to show you our latest Tupperware creations, designed to enhance all your cooking and foodstuffs needs." He swayed on his crutches with the light melody of her words and stared stupidly at her bust line. "Is the lady of the house at home?" she asked. "There is no lady of this house," he managed to choke out, "but come on in and let�s see the stuff."

   His living room was the cleanest place in the apartment and she immediately sat in his recliner. He jacked himself carefully down on to the couch. She immediately pulled out sandwich-size to pot-sized plastic containers and spread them out on her lap and the floor. She began explaining about what each different container was for, why they were different shapes and sizes, their stackability. He heard her through a low, pleasant, light humming in his ears as he took in the gentle oval of her face, the saucy upward turn of her nose. He watched her hands circle in the air as she talked. She had short, delicate fingers like flower stems. Her hair gleamed as the sun chased away the autumn clouds and began to stream through the balcony window. She began unsnapping and snapping closed container lids for "the ultimate in freshness."

   "Why are you out here selling Tupperware?" he blurted, surprising himself. He bit his lip in consternation. She looked at him carefully and slowly sat back with a lap full of containers. She smiled and the room seemed to brighten. "A girl has to make ends meet and I don�t type," she giggled. "Do you like it? Selling," he asked. "Oh, I get to meet interesting people," she said, "but it�s a real challenge selling in the city, where most people eat TV dinners, or out of cans." She shook her hair. "I go to nursing school at night and create a need for Tupperware during the day." She laughed in soft musical tones. "I�m just a �dealer-healer�."

   He relaxed a bit and leaned back against the couch for the first time. His thigh was itching like hell under the cast, but he didn�t think digging around next to his crotch was the thing to do at the moment. She asked him about his leg, so he told her a funny story about falling off the roof and winding up in the confines of his third story apartment that had no building elevator. He liked listening to her laugh. He wanted to ask her more, but didn�t feel comfortable prying into her life.

   "You don�t want any Tupperware, do you?" she asked with a sly arch of her eyebrows and a slight smile. He wrung his hands as he explained that he had no money. "That�s OK." she murmured, "We�ll just order in for two then. My treat. Do you like Chinese?"

   All his leaden soldiers of pressure and stark stinging agonies flashed away, and he sighed a heartfelt "Yes." Then he began to furiously claw under the cast�s lip at his prickly thigh.

� 2000 DPMcClellan