Burst by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 8
The big day came after I had known them for a many months of Youtube watching, conspiracy theory talking and a lot of drinking. Earlier, on the previous evening we were, as usual doing precisely that, during which time I noticed that they weren’t getting along famously. My wife was away visiting relatives back east for two weeks, so I was otherwise alone in the house. After turning in or passing out the previous night, I was greeting the new day at about 9AM, with coffee, Google, and shaking hands, which made typing a bit difficult. I heard a knock at the front door, and thought; “Oh, shit. If I try to get up I’m going to smash my head on something. Do me a favor and sell your crap somewhere else; preferably on the net.”
So, I ignored it and hoped that I had pulled down the blinds in the TV room, where I had been googling “kinds of yucca plants” on my laptop, thereby succeeding in finding everybody who wanted to sell Southwestern landscaping plants and design, but little about yuccas specifically. It was frustrating and required all of the attention I previously had before finding the blankets. They mercifully stopped the head spinning in their warmth, whenever I could get the two of them to act in unison.
But, my tiny, fourteen-year-old, black cat, Teddy always got
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very insistent about being fed and having his water changed as soon as that sun provides the least bit of visibility.
Then the knock came again and my ersatz tranquility was broken. Totally pissed, I audibly said; “Go away. I don’t want any.” The phrase was intended to be more or less universally applicable and rude to anyone selling anything, be they magazine pushing parolees, Jehovah’s Witness missionaries, charitable contribution collectors on commission, or my neighbor Donald, who often stopped by to ask if it was all right with me if he put some more ugly junk in his driveway at our border.
This had worked in the past, but, to my displeasure, a third knock came.
I surmised that the best thing to do was either try to make it to the door and get rid of whatever cretin was there quickly or put up a sign saying; “HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS TERMINAL DISEASE: PROCEED WITH CAUTION.” It seemed a bit late for option number two, so I went to the door, and looked through the transom, where I saw Mal looking at me, making a stupid face; like the one where all the muscles refuse to perform and the eyes appear as that of a cadaver, upon which no one has yet turned down the lids. In other words, he was mimicking the stuff you saw in
“cool” sophomore year of high school. I would soon find that Rikki was there too, but was temporarily blocked from my view.
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I opened the door, seeing them both; and Mal, utilizing his customary, direct approach said; “Can we stay here a while?”
A million thoughts and questions bounced around my head, like neutrinos at CERN. I brightly distilled the thoughts and questions and replied; “No,” and half shut the door.
Rikki laughed as they walked in, fully shutting the door behind them. This is one of the drawbacks of regularly using sarcastic “humor.” I really meant “No” this time; more or less.
Mal said; “Let me get the car in your garage before somebody sees it.”
Besides “Uh oh,” the bouncing possibilities in my head now exceeded CERN neutrino speed. They included things like “stolen car,” “cops,” “harboring a fugitive,” “men with guns,” and
“complete loss of privacy.” For some reason the “men with guns”
possibility became primary; and I led him out the back way and opened the garage door. He parked the car next to mine and I re-closed the door.
As we walked back he said; “Thanks. I’m afraid they got our plates.”
I checked him for a grin as Mal truly had a strange sense of humor, often saying exactly what the other person did not want to hear. Two-thirds of the time nobody got what the joke was, and he’d never explain it. Though it may actually be of the same root; Mal had a knack for jumbling up a story which he
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attributed to undiagnosed ADD. The complications in my mind simplified dramatically, as whatever was going on I was now in it. The deal was done and I reverted to my customary jovial demeanor.
As I moved three dining room chairs to our usual spots near the countertop overhang I said; “I suppose when we all get settled, you’ll grace me with just a few details like; ‘Is my life in danger?’ ‘Who got your plates?’ ‘How long do you plan on staying?’ ‘Some other pertinent details I can’t think of now.’”
Rikki deadpanned; “Probably not. I don’t know. .....
Indefinitely. And what you should have thought of; yes, Mal has his guns.”
“Oh, fine in that case. You guys have breakfast yet?”
Mal said; “Bones, man,” and extended his fist which I punched.
Rikki said; “We’ve been up all night and just need to crash. Where can we sleep?”
“Sorry, you can’t use the bed.” Being-social-butterfly in addition to oven challenged, Diane and I had no guest bedroom.
What were ostensibly intended to be two bedrooms were now a TV
room and a nothingish room, which up until her death a year ago, was the indoor domain of my furniture eating Dalmatian. “When Diane comes back all I need is for her to get a whiff of a
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female scent; and my life will be even more miserable for eternity.”
Rikki said; “Oh, we’ll wash the sheets and blankets before we leave.”
“You don’t understand. This girl has a nose that can find the week old rabbit piss in the bushes. I’ve got loads of heavy blankets and sheets. They’re actually fairly comfortable piled up on the floor. I know, because when she gets mad at me, even at my age, they’re all right. Besides, I can close the doors and you’ll have a private bath.”
Mal said; “Cool.”
“I guess you’ll fill in the details later?”
Mal said; “Yeah, as much as we know. It’s a long strange story.”
They followed me into the nothingish room with an adjoining bath. I opened the closet to get out the sheets and blankets.
Judging from their expressions, it seemed perfectly fine with both of them. As I started to close the door behind me, Mal said; “If anyone pulls into that driveway wake us up quick.”
I nodded.
They were so quiet. It wasn’t as if I was checking for sounds, but after an hour or so of virtual silence it became apparent to me that my social networking fiasco produced
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insufficient decibels to fill the soundstage at hand. Rikki and Mal were either extremely polite or they passed into dreamland as soon as their heads hit the pillows, perhaps both.
I returned to my laptop; this time googling Albuquerque News to see if there was anything there which might have something to do with Rikki and Mal. There was another shooting in South Valley, this time by an apprehended fifteen year old; and some information on a continuing Albuquerque cop misconduct trial. The items didn’t seem to have any direct bearing over what the two had told me; so I passed time nervously flipping around the sites which carried complaints about Goodreads. The sheer volume kept me occupied until Rikki and Mal got up at 2PM, in search of coffee with a wine chaser.
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