It was unusually tough to get out of bed this morning. Well... I use the term "bed" loosely. I guess it was tough in part because my bed last night happened to be the cold linoleum floor of my apartment kitchen. The right side of my face is sore and it feels like it is pressed against a space heater. This seem unusual because the left side of my face is frozen numb from the linoleum. I don't know how I ended up here. In fact I can't even begin to guess but all things considered I'm glad I'm in a familiar place.


The door to my apartment is still open and my keys are in the deadbolt. I'm shirtless... there is a huge black skid and a hole in the back of my formerly favorite pair of pants. I peel myself off of the blue faux tile and look in my fridge. I forgot to buy Gatorade... or any other food in the past month. The thought of drinking the heavy cream in my fridge triggers the gag reflex in the back of my throat. I think it's gonna have to be tap water.


As I swallow the last gulp of unfiltered river water and chlorine from my faucet, I look down and notice a few red drops on my pants. I lick my thumb and rub the stain, but that doesn't work. In fact, I don't think that has ever worked on any stain in my own personal history but for whatever reason that never stops me from trying. I suppose I am an optimist. I take my pants off and walk to the luxurious stacked washer/dryer combo in a 3'x3' closet in my apartment. I grab the stain remover from on top of the dryer and spray the red drops on my pants. I turn the pants over and try to cover the black skid on the back. If these stains come clean, my favorite pair of pants value will double. People pay big money for pants with holes in them.



I drop my pants in the tiny washer and there is no room for my shirt... well if I still had my shirt it wouldn't fit. I turn the dial to hot/hot and start the cycle. I know the hot water will make the pants too tight, but its a trade off. A little snug or offensively dirty. Now that I have trusted my pants to a $50 washing machine, it's my turn. I walk into the bathroom and the cold linoleum feels familiar on the bottom of my feet. I close the bathroom vanity and prepare myself for what I am about to be staring at in the mirror. As I open my eyes and look into the mirror I am reminded of why I quit drinking four years ago. My disheveled hair would be a concern most mornings but not today. I definitely need to shave, but that's not even a blip on my image radar. The star of today's reveal is a dark blue bruise under my right eye.



The white of my eye is blood red and the socket starts to feel like an elephant is standing on it. Why do injuries hurt so much more when you become aware of them? I know I still need a shower. I can smell myself. The stench of cigarettes and bourbon mixed with body musk and grease is pouring off of me like Pig Pen in the Peanuts comics. Still, I have to find out how this happened. I know I started last night after work with my on again/off again friend/date/bail bondsman. I hate making this phone call. I hate even more that I just realized my cell phone is probably still in the front left pocket of my pants.



I open the washer and the water stops spinning. I reach in and grab the front left pocket of my pants and feel a hard lump. It would be senseless to pull the phone out of the washer. If my phone won't work, it might as well be clean. Slamming the lid jump starts the cycle again. I know I can probably find enough change in my couch for at least one, maybe two phone calls. After scrounging amongst stale Cheetos and old batteries for a few minutes I gather three quarters. A few years ago this would make three phone calls. Now only two. Inflation can be such a pitiless bitch.



I walk down my apartment corridor past the astounded stares of several fellow tenants. I start to wonder if I can tell by looking at them if they pay rent on time. He might... she does... no way... ect. I begin to realize I am still groggy and unapologetically judgemental this morning. Mr. Thomas in 3B is a widow. His wife died of "natural causes" if there is such a thing. In this case I think "natural causes" means "smothered with pillow by husband after 49 years of marriage." It was fairly obvious. Her broken nose wasn't caused naturally. Her bruised face didn't just happen to make her heart stop. Old people can get away with anything. It's as if some police investigator that has struggled through 15 years of marriage looked at Mr. Thomas and said, "Go ahead and live free now. You've earned it."



Pay phones are disgusting. As I press the phone between my shoulder and ear I can feel something cold a wet on my ear lobe. I don't look because I don't want to know. I drop in the last of my savings account from the Bank of Sofa. You laugh, but I am earned as much interest as you are earning on your savings account right now. I dial one of the only two numbers I have memorized. She answers the phone, "Hello?"



"It's me."



"Where are you calling me from?"



"A pay phone."



She bursts into laughter and responds, "Lost you cell phone, huh?"



"Thanks for your compassion," I say. "Hey, what happened last night? Was I drunk?"



"You don't drink," she replies. "You haven't for four years now."



"No I know. I just can't figure out why I don't remember getting home last night."



"That's comforting," she insists. "Do I need to head to the clinic for a check-up?"



"I doubt it," I say. "I mean no... not unless you just want to."



"You're a dick," she says in a familiar pissed off tone. "I left you with Boxer at The Dive around 9:30. You were completely sober and fully aware of your surroundings when you told me goodnight."



I say thanks and hear the click of a dead phone line. I don't really want to call Boxer. I really just want to know what happened to my eye...