Inside My Shorts: 30 Quickies

by Adam Sifre

  Lisa smiled, shook her head, and started down the stairs. Mr. Hayden followed.

  “It doesn’t look as cluttered down here.”

  “I just started putting things down here a few months ago. A little here and there every now and then.”

  At the bottom of the stairs she found the hanging light and pulled the string. It swung slightly, filling the room with dancing shadows.

  “Sometimes with basements…” her voice trailed off.

  Aside from the pile in the far corner, scattered across the floor were briefcases, Blackberry’s, Iphones, pads of paper, women’s shoes, a digital tape recorder --

  “They keep coming. Some from as far away as Wichita. Can you imagine?” A stranger’s voice. Not shrill and reedy. It was deeper, younger. She started to turn.

  “Mr. Hayden?”

  Her eyes froze on the pile in the corner. There must have been eight or ten corpses stacked in the corner. Some looked almost mummified.

  “Dad, please. She’s here to help.”

  She heard the soft tug and click of the chain and then the light went out. It may have been dim before, but it was plenty dark now. Her last thought was one of recognition, if not understanding.

  His son. That’s his son’s voice!

  Then, the shrill, reedy voice of Mr. Hayden. “I told you. They never come back.”

  CHAPTER 4

  EMPTY

  “I'm HERE!” As usual, nothing answered. Not even birds anymore. A silent midday sun and a faint breeze were the last two reminders that time kept moving on. Wind whispered unheard messages through the grasses, the trees, abandoned buildings, and dead cities. It touched everything that was left, and moved on. Everything moved on, he supposed.

  The time of ruin and chaos had been terrible and terrifying. But at least it had been something. Now, the world was tired, thin and winding down. It had no interest -- no patience -- for Joe Foxwood, the last man on earth, and he knew it. Never the most popular kid at the dance back when the there were people to dance with, he knew all too well what being ignored felt like. Years of suffering the indifference of an uncaring father, being overlooked by co-workers at the Raskill, Nevada Post Office, and jerking off to internet porn had worn at him, like rain and wind wore down a mountain. Although with Joe, perhaps it was more like how an ocean wore down a sand castle. It stripped him of everything except for a dull craving for attention.

  Now Joe was the most popular man on the planet, but nothing changed. Not really.

  “I'm HERE! I’m here.” He turned the wheels of his shopping cart against the curb and lowered himself to the ground. There he sat, on the corner of Laguna Avenue and Main Street, in front of a Maggie Moo's Ice Cream Parlor, on a warm, sunny day, crying quietly into his hands. Nothing noticed. He'd cried so often these days, he hardly noticed himself. Another breeze came and ruffled his hair, but he could find no comfort in it. And there, in the middle of nowhere, or the middle of anywhere, resting against a shopping cart filled with two torsos, two heads and eight limbs, the last man on earth cried himself to sleep.

  He woke up in darkness, stiff and feeling more tired than ever. His back and legs protested when he stood and he debated just spending the night on the street. He wouldn’t, though. Hard enough being alone in an empty world; being alone in an empty world without a home didn’t bear thinking on. He was tethered to the place and if he severed that tie, Joe knew he would start drifting away until the place swallowed him, and he disappeared. He walked the mile in darkness the likes of which the world had not seen in millennia.

  At the house he assembled the two newest editions to his family, and placed them both in the kitchen, one standing before an open fridge (stocked with canned goods only) and the other in front of the dry sink. The house was full of mannequins. He'd scoured all the local shops for them. Took him two whole days, or forever; he couldn't remember. There were dozens, sitting on couches and chairs, reading books, watching dark television screens, lying in bed. There were even two doing the nasty in the upstairs bathroom.

  They gave the place the illusion of activity. Secretly, Joe hoped he might go a little crazy and the mannequins would talk to him. Maybe come alive and try to kill him. He didn't care. So long as they acknowledged him.

  “Hello?” He walked into the living room. Two mannequins were in the corner, heads close together, engaged in their own private conversation. Joe started toward them. “Hey. Hi.”

  He stopped in the middle of the room. They didn’t answer, just kept on whispering whatever mannequins whispered to each other.

  He stood in the middle of the living room, between the big screen tv and the couch. Three of them sat on the couch, waiting, making him feel uncomfortable.

  “Sorry.” He went to the staircase by the front door and shouted.

  “Hello! Come on, guys. Somebody say SOMETHING!”

  Nothing.

  Joe was shit house crazy, but the mannequins didn’t care. They watched his TV, ate in his kitchen, fucked in his bathroom, and acted like their host wasn’t even there.

  “You can’t do this! This is my house! MY HOUSE!”

  From then on, Joe Foxwood slept on the front porch, avoiding their blank stares and cold shoulders. Some days he'd scream at them for hours until his throat was raw and his body covered in sweat, but they didn't care. He’d come sometimes for shelter and food, but his visits got shorter and shorter.

  “It’s my house!”

  Each night, however, he found himself lying on the mattress, outside on the porch, while his unwelcomed guests continued to take advantage of his hospitality. The hot summer breezes brought little relief on these nights and poor Joe would fall asleep, exhausted and mumbling, tears leaking from his eyes.

  On his last day, as he’d taken to doing for longer than he could remember, Joe spent the morning making telephone calls. Sometimes, in the beginning, he'd get lucky and an answering machine would pick up. He left all kinds of messages. Nasty rants, pleading for someone to pick up, friendly invites for dinner and drinks. He must have left a thousand messages by now.

  “My legacy.”

  But no luck today. The cell phones were going the way of the dinosaurs. The way of man, he supposed. All the machines ignored Joe today.

  His last coherent idea – the last coherent idea ever formed – was wind chimes.

  So he went shopping for the last time, spending the whole day searching the stores for wind chimes. The music of the wind chimes. The music of the wind chimes. That was the name of the first shop he found. Now it was Joe’s mantra, endlessly repeated itself.

  It was near dark when he turned down the street to his house, pushing a shopping cart filled with twenty-seven wind chimes. Ducks, moons, stars, sea shells, traditional 'chimes', and his favorite; a wind chime made of light blue glass, depicting a party. It had people dancing, little martini glasses that sparkled white and blue in the sun... just looking at it almost made him happy.

  He began weeping again as he approached the house. He did that so often these days, for no reason at all, really. Even Joe ignored the tears.

  From his porch, he screamed at the mannequins; a violent shout of defiance that they refused to acknowledge.

  Never mind them.

  Joe got busy hanging his wind chimes. It took him almost two hours and was well past dark by the time he finished. Braving the house full of blank stares and plastic indifference, he quickly went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of warm beer and ran back out to the porch. He sat on the top step, in the silent night and waited.

  All night he waited, underneath a brilliant sky of cold starlight.

  All night.

  Not a single breeze. Not the faintest puff of wind. The chimes remained silent.

  When the sun finally rose, it found Joe sitting on his porch, beer unopened, weeping. No one was there to discover if he ever stopped. Not even a soft summer breeze.

  CHAPTER 5

  FISHING

  The world held its breath, the deep
blue sky staring up at itself from the glassy lake. The very stillness of the morning was in itself a presence and demanded attention. It brought with it an absence of the mundane, allowing one’s thought to fill the vacuum.

  George let his hand hang over the side of the small boat, enjoying the coolness of the water. Half the valley blazed green, awash in bright, morning light. Finally, the day exhaled, and he was treated to the sound of birdsong, the occasional splash of fish meeting food, and Janet’s labored breathing.

  This used to be my favorite time of day.

  The boat rocked gently, the oars bumping quietly against the rusted gold rings.. His fishing pole lay in the boat, unused. Now was the best time to fish. They were always biting at this time of the day. Large mouth bass, sturgeon, striped bass. Sometimes it felt to him like they were lining up for a boat ride. Not today, though. For the first time in twenty years, he didn’t care.

  “Just this once. It will be fun.” Even now, even here, her voice refused to let him alone. It kept coming back, softly pushing against him, like the water rocking the boat.

  God, he used to love fishing. One week a year when he got to leave everything behind – the office, the television, Janet and her mother, the same tired conversations -- all of it stayed in Jersey. One beautiful week each year spent on the lake, soaking in all the peace and solitude that God and this world had to offer. A brief time where a man could forget all the small, back-breaking weights that life saddled you with when you weren’t looking. His perfect place -- just big enough for George to lose himself in.

  “I don’t see why we have to start so early. The lake isn’t going anywhere.”

  He sighed. They were quite a ways out. He looked over his shoulder, unable to find the small cabin form here, though he made out a few of the larger houses on the west side of the valley. Smoke escaped from a few of the chimneys. The old timers still cooked their breakfast over wood fires out here, and George’s stomach rumbled in sympathy. He’d cooked two scrambled eggs for breakfast, but Janet had taken a few large forkfuls off his plate, refusing to allow him to cook more, insisting she wasn’t hungry. Not a breakfast person, she’d been content to pick off his plate again.

  “I don’t care about fishing. I just thought some time alone together would be nice.”

  Alone together, together alone. The thought ran counterpoint to the rhythm of the gentle rocking.

  Stretching, George tried in vain to crack his back and neck. He’d been cracking knuckles, toes, back and neck since before he had hair on his pecker and now was addicted to it sure as women were addicted to gossip. He found no relief today. His fingers kept cramping up and his neck twinged whenever he tried to turn to the left. Damned arthritis. Sometimes when it got like this, Janet would walk on his back. That always seemed to do the trick. She hated the popping sound his back made, but she empathized with his pain and was always a good sport about it.

  “I packed a lunch, turkey and Swiss.”

  His stomach rumbled its own ghostly response and he wished he’d thought to bring the sandwiches. They were back on the porch wrapped in wax paper. At the time, he didn’t feel right about taking them. Now, it seemed foolish.

  Careful not to rock the small boat, he cautiously half stood and turned. Janet was on her stomach, legs hanging over the boat, the yellow sundress bunched up around her waist. Her arms were tied to the cooler with fishing line and her head rested on its top. She looked like she was holding the cooler in a protective hug, perhaps making sure George didn’t try to steal a sandwich before lunch. He smiled at the though, but it didn’t last.

  No sandwiches today. Today the cooler kept only stones cold.

  Blood trickled from wrists and ankles, from the fishing wire. It pooled in a small puddle in the middle of the rowboat. He straddled himself over her waist worked his arms around her. She moaned just the slightest bit when he manhandled her. She’d long since lost the energy to do much more. After a few awkward moments, her torso hung over the side, the heavy cooler secured to her hands and chest with fishing wire and duct tape.

  Quiet tears trickled down his face, a few splashing on the back of Janet’s arms.

  “So what should we talk about?”

  He never asked for much. George was a piece of sandstone and life an unforgiving river. Nothing terrible ever happened, but it wore at him nonetheless. Just the tiniest bit each day, as was the way of things, he supposed. Then, one day you woke up and there was hardly anything there. Except fishing, and the lake. A little echo of Eden, a memory of a life he’d never live, but sweet and no less dear for it.

  He grabbed her again and heaved. Janet hardly made a splash as she slipped over the side and disappeared.

  “Some things should never be shared.“

  CHAPTER 6

  FREE FALLING

  I don’t have a lot of time, so listen up. At 20,000 feet, you have about 90 seconds before you hit the ground. That information was generously provided to me by Sal Giovanni, right before two of his goons threw me out of the plane.

  Here’s another meaningless fact. Today was my first time in an airplane.

  One last fact: there may be some things worth dying for, but I can now say that Maggie isn’t one of them.

  I met her in a Starbucks about two weeks ago. She was blonde, leggy, soft in the right places and knew how to wear the fuck out of a pair of high heel shoes. Red, if you can believe it. Every guy in the place was looking at her; a few of the women as well. At the time, I couldn’t believe my good luck when she spoke to me. I’m not a horror show, but no one is ever going to mistake me for Brad Pitt. I have a bit of a paunch, a bit of a bald spot and a bit of halitosis. I’m the kind of guy that a wife will put up with. So when put her hand on my upper arm and asked:

  “Hello, have you ever killed a dog?” I was too excited to worry about the question.

  “Um, hi. What?”

  She wore a yellow sundress, smelled like honeysuckle, and her tits worked harder than Viagra. She squeezed my arm and smiled. My blood rushed to exactly where it was supposed to go, and when I came to, we were sitting in the corner of the coffee shop and she was whispering in my ear.

  Now, she could have whispered the first chapter of ‘War and Peace,’ and I could have died a happy man. But what she said was:

  “I need someone to fuck me, steal my husband’s money, and kill a dog. His dog. And I want that someone to be you.”

  I probably should have told her to get lost. But then she breathed. Oh my, did she breathe. So instead, I played it cool.

  “Um…”

  “The thing is,” she whispered, “my husband’s a prick. And I found out he’s not a monogamous prick. She placed her small hand on my thigh, causing me to black out for a bit again. “So I want to return the favor, and then some.” Her hand moved up my leg. Things stirred, let me tell you. It was time to turn on the charm.

  “Um…”

  She gave my thigh a gentle squeeze. “So, are you in…”

  She kissed my ear. “Or are you out?”

  “Uhh..”

  “In?” Another soft squeeze. “Or out?”

  Fifteen minutes later we were in her hotel room. Fifteen minutes and 3 seconds later, I was in her mouth. I know, I know, but I don’t have time to be circumspect. Also, there were pictures. She took all kinds of pictures.

  “For hubby,” she purred.

  I’d be lying if I said it bothered me.

  Later, after we scraped ourselves off the sheets and washed up, she took two objects out of her purse and placed them on the nightstand. A keychain and a gun. You can imagine that my enthusiasm had cooled somewhat at this point.

  “Uh…”

  “The big key opens the front door. The small key opens the safe in the upstairs study. It’s a floor safe under the desk. There should be 40 to 75 thousand dollars in there. You get to keep half. The other half you bring to me. If you’re not back in two hours, I send these pictures to my husband, along with your name and address.”
>
  “But –“

  She held up my wallet. “My husband is not the kind of man to let something like this go.

  He’s more like the kind of man to have you dig your own hole.”

  “Um…”

  "If you are back here in two hours, I send the pictures anyway, but without any of your info. I hope that prick does a slow burn for the rest of the day, and then I hope his head explodes when he finds out his money is missing."

  “And the gun? I could use the money and I appreciate the, um, the sex. But I don’t think I could shoot anyone.”

  She gave a soft laugh and walked over to the bed. She took my head in her hands and pressed it against her moneymaker.

  “The gun’s for the dog.”

  Oh yeah. The dog.

  "The house will be empty except for his damn dog, Lucky. He loves that mutt more than me and maybe more than money. It’s about 500 years old and farts more than it barks. You’ll be doing Lucky a favor.” She grabbed my head in both hands and pushed herself against my face. “Shoot the dog, bring me back its collar, and I’ll let you put it on me and fuck me like a dog until one of us passes out.”

  I’d be lying if I said the prospect bothered me.

  “Umph…”

  The house was a large colonial in a nice neighborhood. Like all suburban neighborhoods in Jersey, it was a complete ghost town between 10:00 am and 2:00 pm. I opened the door and slipped inside. Easy peasy. I didn’t take time to tour the whole place, instead making my way straight up the stairs. Hook a right, go past two doors; open the third. Bingo. The study.