Unscrewed

by Ren Alexander

  “You’re back!” Betsy screeches like a dying barn owl, also going over to hug her. Now, I feel for Rhonda, having to endure an ounce of Betsy’s funk.

  I notice the makeup Rhonda’s wearing and the bolder hairdo, neither of which ever made an appearance her first go-round here. I guess it’s an upgrade so far.

  Setting down her half-ton load, Val announces, “Please, welcome back Rhonda Bernard.”

  Returning to her seat as Val ushers Rhonda to a chair, Betsy says, “Bernard? Your last name is Jessup.”

  Also bolder is her voice. “It’s not anymore. Bernard is my maiden name.”

  Well, now. I guess that will be our office’s topic of conversation for a while, giving me a break.

  After monotonous greetings and stupid questions in tandem for Rhonda, Brandon finally takes control of this tedious shit. “Again, welcome back, Rhonda. Will you be playing in the last game tomorrow with us?”

  She nods, smiling. “Yes. Val told me about practice after work. I’ll be there.”

  “Good. Before we get the meeting started, I want to extend an invitation to all of you for an end-of-season celebration at my house after the game tomorrow. You’re all welcome to bring your families and swim in my heated pool. It’ll be catered and fun.”

  Shit. Says who?

  When everyone starts talking, Hadley leans close to me. Her hair and breath touch my neck as she whispers, “You’re going, right?”

  “Probably not.”

  “You have to. Come on.”

  I shrug, which moves her ponytail that’s draped over my shoulder. “I have no reason to.”

  “Me.” She lightly laughs as I glare at the polished table.

  Changing the subject, she asks, “What do you think of Rhonda being back?” I again shrug, not caring at all. Hadley whispers, “Maybe it’s your chance with her.”

  I turn to Hadley, nearly bumping noses with her, and I instantly feel all eyes on us. I don’t move away. They all can fuck off too.

  Still, everyone is carrying on their own conversations as I look at Hadley’s face, struggling to look into her eyes. My eyes can’t fall to her lips. I just can’t go there right now, even in front of a roomful of witnesses. I whisper, “Chance?”

  “You know. Maybe she’s the one.”

  I laugh, shaking my head, as my gaze drops to the table, purposely avoiding her tits. I do have some courtesy, not wanting to embarrass her in front of everyone.

  Even though I doubt she hears me, I dump the whisper, confessing, “I had the one. I just wasn’t hers.”

  However, Hadley is at my ear, asking, “Who?”

  Instead of answering that, I look at her again. “I can’t come over tonight.”

  Her eyes widen, and she looks to her bottle of water. I think I hurt her feelings or some shit. Part of me wants to tell her how I feel, but that would accomplish nothing. There’s no prize for me. Only more misery.

  Brandon begins talking again, and I slump in my chair, feeling the tightness in my chest.

  Shit. I hate withdrawal.

  I want so much to be alone with her tonight, just for an hour. Nothing would happen. Though, I’m more at risk of actually going there with her than she is. She would never cheat on him.

  Sometimes, I wish she fucking would.

  More than sometimes.

  CHAPTER 4

  Locking my truck, I head to the stairs leading up to the second level of my apartment building, hating that I haven’t moved. I can’t bring any kid here. Instead of birds chirping, I hear sirens and random yelling. At least twice a week, I see drug deals go down in the parking lot. I’m pretty sure all of my neighbors are crackheads, and most have probably confessed to a murder. I’m still waiting for mine.

  I stomp up the cement stairs, the hollow echoing sounds like muffled gunshots. Grabbing the rusty handrail, I use it to swing onto the second-floor balcony. I smell the muddy James River before I look over, seeing it not far from here, being a river rat. I don’t know why Hadley makes a big deal about the fucking canal. It’s just more muddy water.

  Rounding the corner and approaching my apartment, my footsteps are quiet and fast, avoiding landmines, in a way. But my black Cole Haan boots make scuffing noises over the rippled cement balcony, and I whisper, “Fucking dump.” Then I scream to myself for saying anything out loud since I want to avoid certain neighbors.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  Like that one.

  Shit.

  I stop only because my mother taught me to be polite, especially to the unfortunate—my coworkers excluded. I’m such a stupid ass for listening to my mother. Fuck me to hell. She never told me what to do if I’m the one who’s unfortunate in any situation.

  Scratching my jaw as I turn to the voice behind me, I aim for a smile, but laying my eyes on my neighbor hag, it’s an effort to keep my Schlubby fries and Hirschfeld from not staging a revival. She leans against the metal doorframe, dragging not only from her limp cigarette but also her watery eyes up and down my body. I feel more exposed than I did with Betsy earlier or even more than if I’d strip off my clothes and run into the women’s locker room at the gym.

  This broad has Betsy beat, being the Crypt Keeper’s sister—the dirty version if that says anything. And when I say dirty, I mean she reeks of cigarettes, burnt rubber, stale cum, and spoiled tacos. Kind of puts things in perspective when the prospect of fucking the original deal wouldn’t be horrible compared to this cuntastrophe.

  Her stringy blonde-gray-brown hair looks like a 12-year-old bottle of Gulden’s mustard. Instead of rat-cage curlers today, her hair is in a low ponytail with a black scrunchy that was probably white at some point in the 90s. The short, lavender robe she’s wearing is a departure from the short peach-colored one she usually wears. I think it started off as satin, but now it’s so worn, I see through it. Fucking 20/20 eyesight.

  Flo—that’s what I call her since she resembles the character from Alice—pulls again on the wilted cig, showing off her yellowed fingernails that match her teeth. She sputters a hacking cough and says, “I can’t believe fall is here.” I wish my death were.

  “Uh, yeah.” I want nothing more than to talk about the damn weather with this cumhose. “Well, anyway.” I nod, but I don’t know what for, and then attempt to leave. Every time I run into her, she either offers useless information or propositions me for sex. There’s no doubt in my mind she’s a prostitute so it must be a promotional offer.

  “Did you know...?” God hates me. I turn back to her and Flo impatiently flicks the ashes and stares like she’s waiting for me to finish her damn thought. I take a step toward the railing and hold onto it, being the quickest ticket out of here. I could quickly hop over it and to my death, hopefully.

  I avoid rolling my hand as I do to Hadley when she’s circling the airport, taking her time getting to the point. Flo licks her lips, and I openly cringe, thinking of all the cocks she’s had between them for 10 bucks.

  “Did you know that this building used to be an old motel?”

  “Um, really?” Who cares?

  She nods fast, swinging her cigarette, practically turning it into a sparkler. “We’re in Tobacco Row, you know. It used to be the place here in Richmond for the big tobacco companies’ factories and warehouses.”

  “Cool,” I say, not caring, but answering so maybe she’ll shut her trap.

  “In the 80s they converted the warehouses to fancy apartments. This old motel was bought and converted into apartments, shoving two rooms together, making them one apartment. They had to take out the extra doors and shit.”

  “Okay.” Kill me.

  “The motel was infamously used for adulterous affairs and ladies of the evening.” Flo smiles at me, almost demure in her effort, but her yellow teeth and the accordion wrinkles around her eyes blow that shit straight to hell. “It was a refuge for those hard-working women.” Is she fucking serious?

  “Um, wow.” Over the railing, Greg.

  “And
you know, Libby Prison was nearby, close to the James.” She nods toward the river. “Where the floodwall is now.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I take obvious steps back along the railing but that only alarms her, making her more desperate, moving her hand to the bottom of her robe. Blind. I need to be blind like Step-Grandma Rodwell.

  No. I need to fucking run.

  “When they dismantled it, they moved it to Chicago, but then dismantled it again and sold it in pieces to tourists.” I look toward the river, wishing I were drowning in it. “I love Richmond history. Don’t you?” Her voice is huskier than a phone-sex operator.

  “Yeah, sure,” I answer. My mouth is dry, I must sound like a cat coughing up a hairball.

  Showing off her teeth again, I practically throw my hands over my face, shielding me from the sight when she asks, “Why don’t you come inside, and we can talk about it more? Or...you can just come inside. You never do.” Licking her lips, not unlike a dog eating peanut butter, and still leaning against the doorframe, Flo parts her legs some and pulls her robe to the side. Fucking Christ, I see Father Time’s beard surrounding a gaping cesspool. I swear roaches scurry from her dank abyss and toxic cloud. I’m officially in hell. I had a one-way ticket, and I crash landed.

  I step back more and faster. “I have a girlfriend.” Flo shrugs. Stupid me, as if she’d care. “I’m busy. And I’m not from around here. So...”

  “Oh. Where’re you from?” Suddenly interested, she waves her cigarette in the air like she’s flagging in a 747. I hope it takes her out first.

  “Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Total Yankee. Go Union!” I raise my fist, with a feeble-as-fuck laugh, hoping that gets on her nerves so she won’t follow me.

  Flo closes her legs as far as they’ll go, but they’re probably used to being open wider than a Thanksgiving turkey’s. Then she wrinkles her nose at me. I’m the one who’s offensive? Yeah, hag. I shower and don’t reuse condoms. Like I’m the one who offers myself to any passing chick, standing in my doorway, swinging my dick their way?

  Why in the hell am I the one who’s offended now? Get it together, Rodwell.

  As I turn, I hear her heavy door slam. What a cranky bitch.

  I shove my key into the door handle and shoulder it open. Kicking the door shut behind me, I hurry to lock it. And Hadley complained about her dump she was living in last year. Right. She didn’t have Flo the Ho living next door, showing off her skankhole.

  Walking over to the ragged couch, I empty my pockets onto the coffee table, dropping my wallet, but before I toss my keys, I find the last thing Eden gave to me while alive, a small gold keychain—a kite. For the kite festival last spring, I flew one in honor of my sister and even went to my mother’s in Durham, North Carolina to give it to Eden. I don’t know. Something to brighten her room there since she had to move back home with Mom. Eden couldn’t manage on her own anymore because of how bad her health was. Visiting Eden, when I gave the kite to her, she smiled and said I was destined to be an Avon rep addicted to meth and alcohol. Then I guess it’s a mystery who put the keychain in my suitcase. It’s something she always denied.

  Laughing out loud, I mutter, “Bitch.”

  When I look up from the keychain, I see Eden’s purple diary on the coffee table. It’s been sitting there since I brought it home. My sister has been gone for almost a year, and I still haven’t been able to read past that first page. I’ve moved the diary from one end of the table to the other, flipped it over a few times, and shoved it off the table once, but I haven’t reopened it. I’m scared to read more.

  I have to stop being afraid.

  It’s time to man-up. I have to change.

  Plopping down on the couch, I reach for the diary from the worn coffee table my mother said my apartment needed. She was just glad to be rid of the cheap furniture and me. Even the ancient couch underneath my ass was a castaway from her decades past.

  Sighing, I look at the diary in my hands. It’s thin, almost like sample companies send you in the mail. There’s not much to it, kind of like Eden. Maybe that means she’s done with her damn lecturing.

  Still, I miss my sister’s voice, no matter what she was telling me to do or what she was calling me.

  I pull the diary open to the second entry.

  Gregster,

  It fucking took you long enough!

  You’d still better not be blubbering about me. If it makes you feel better, I’d be over your death way before now.

  This is where I’d be rolling my eyes at you. Like, seriously, Greg. I’m fine. You’re the one with problems out the ass.

  At least that’s what my physical therapist heard about you.

  Come on. You used to be funny sometimes, primarily when it was at your expense.

  I know you have a lot on your mind. I should not be one of them.

  And neither should she.

  You know who I’m talking about.

  I’ve thought this over. You need a woman who, for one, isn’t in love with another man. That’s generally a good rule to follow.

  Finding one who makes you laugh is an excellent place to start. Just hold off on showing her your dick. You want her to laugh with you, not at you, Gregster.

  So, my shitty wisdom for the day is to laugh.

  You also need to date. Find one.

  Oh. And get laid for Christ’s sake.

  He’s begging you to.

  You should start keeping your own journal. Even though you’re obviously beyond help, it might be therapeutic. I had to look that word up.

  Goals, Greg.

  E

  I cannot believe I read that shit.

  I close the purple book with a snapping sound. Damn Eden can’t mind her own business even in death.

  She wants me to write something? Spew shit like she did? Fine. Reopening the diary, I pick up the pen laying on the coffee table, and below her entry, I write:

  E,

  How ‘bout I see your “get laid” and raise you a “fuck off?”

  There’s no one to “get over” as you said. I’m doing quite fine on my own without your crummy advice that’s a decade late and a grand short. Price of inflation, you know.

  Go away. I have shit to do.

  Greg

  Flinging the book and pen back onto the table, I check my watch since the batteries in my living room wall clock have been dead for almost two years. Softball practice starts in 16 minutes.

  I go into my bedroom and flip on the light. When Hadley stayed with me during her breakup last year, she commented about the music posters on my wall resembling that of a preteen girl’s bedroom. I love music. So what if Milli Vanilli was a fake band and had their awards stripped. They still had cool songs.

  It also doesn’t help that I have the kite Hadley flew in the festival hanging in the corner from my ceiling. I don’t give a fuck what people think. It’s not like I have women in and out of my apartment to even see it. Hadley’s the only one who visits me.

  Yanking apart my tie, I start thinking of what Shasta said earlier about my clothes. When I return my Storm Trooper tie to the closet, I spin the tie carousel, making my Michael Kors and Ralph Lauren ties fly out like an amusement park ride. Moving to unbutton my shirt, I scan my expensive clothes, knowing the skank has a point. Most of my clothes are designer. The only ones that aren’t were gifts from my parents. Even Hadley buys me my favorite designers for my birthday and Christmas. Hell, even for one of the nights of Hanukkah.

  But I have to change, and that’s one area I can change. I don’t want to lose my kid. I’m just not ready for her. And if she’s my kid, then she’s definitely not ready for me yet. I just can’t get past having a kid with Shasta. This was not how my life was supposed to work out. Why in the hell do I always get the shaft? I was going to be a lawyer. I can’t now. Even that fucker Amos is onto me. I can’t concentrate worth shit, and now, I doubt everything. I used to be semi-confident. But doing the things I have been late, I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore.
>
  Looking into my closet, I know I have to stop wasting my money on clothes and start saving to get the hell out of this place. I detest cheap shit in general. I’ve managed with a shitty apartment, hand-me-down furniture, and truck but since scoring my paralegal job at the firm, I’ve been uncompromising on my clothes. I have to grow up, and I don’t have any choice but to do that. I need to show Shasta I’m serious about trying. Maybe I need to prove it to myself more, though.

  I unbuckle my belt and then pull out the most expensive pair of jeans I own. The only sweatpants I own are the pair my mother bought for me, and I refuse to wear them in public, so I do go to softball practice in my jeans. But never in my True Religion jeans. Shit. This’ll be fucking painful.

  Ratcheting it up a notch, I take the jeans to the kitchen. My loose belt jingles as I dig through the junk drawer. Finding what I need, I dump my jeans onto the table and get to work.

  Grabbing my batting gloves from the console, I get out of my truck, and I look around, seeing most of my coworkers’ cars, along with a few stragglers. Oh, fucking joy. I wish I were in the mood for this shit. At least we only have one more practice and game.

  I slam my door, and from the truck bed, I grab my black glove and the blue aluminum bat. It’s given me many homers. Nobody can deny that I’m one of the best batters on the team. Only Crick is better. Not many know this, but Crick wanted to be a major league ballplayer. For some reason, in college, he dumped his baseball scholarship to be a paralegal. He gave up on his dream. Obviously, I wouldn’t know what that’s like.

  I make my way from the gravel lot to the benches on the side of the field. Everyone is in the outfield, practicing. As they should be. Most need it.

  “Look who finally decided to show up.” Ignoring his shitty attitude, I lean my bat against the fence and tuck my glove beneath my arm, along with my batting gloves.

  “Yep. Here.”

  When I turn around, our assistant coach, Ricky Tesco, tips forward his sunglasses and squints his disdain for me because of the low sun poking through the clouds. With an ever-present grin, he resumes chomping his gum, asking, “You forget about practice?” No, but I did forget my damn sunglasses.