The Clay Head Benediction

by Marty Rafter

see that I am bleeding. After she is gone, I race up the stairs to my apartment tracking blood and mud as I walk. When I get to my door, it is mercifully unlocked. I walk inside, and notice that nothing is disturbed. My bed is orderly. Everything still shows signs of my rush organizational efforts a few days earlier.

  I scour the apartment for my shoes, but they are nowhere to be found. The only other footwear I have is an old pair of shower sandals, and so, I wash and bandage my feet, and put on the sandals. Then, after a bit more searching, I find my keys in one of their normal places, and walk to the basement maintenance closet where I retrieve a mop and a bucket. I carry the mop back to my apartment, and clean the entire floor, and after that, I move onto the hallway and stairs where I diligently remove the evidence of my shoeless nocturnal sojourn. As I am finishing the lobby, I hear a key in front door, and after a brief delay, Ron Reinhold, the building’s owner and manager, and my seasonal boss, walks in. When he sees me mopping, he smiles broadly and says “Well, well, does this mean that you have finally decided to take me up on my offer, Lukas?”

  “I was just doing a little bit of cleaning up.” I say

  “And to think, all you have to do is say the words and your ‘little bit of cleaning’ can turn into a superintendant’s title and a nice discount on your rent.”

  “Ok. You’ve worn me down, Ron. I’ll do it” I say

  “that a’ boy. I knew this was going to turn out to be a good day. “He says, and he reaches out to shake my hand. And as he does, he looks down at my bandaged feet

  “Holy shit, man. What the hell happened to your feet?” He asks

  I look down as if I hadn’t noticed the bandages that covered each one of my toes “have you heard of this barefoot running thing?”

  “No, but it sounds like some kind of kooky bullshit, perfect for a guy like you” he says laughing, and I laugh too. “I was just thinking that you were looking pretty thin. Is that the culprit? Running around with no shoes?”

  I look into Ron’s pleasant smiling face, “I have been getting quite a bit of exercise”

  “That is the sign of a true professional. Staying fit in the off season”

  “Spring will be here before we know it” I say

  “Well, don’t overdo it there, star quarterback, god knows I’m not can’t rent all these apartments myself” He says

  I smile at him, “Don’t worry coach.”

  “In the meantime, I already have your first duty as the new super.” He reaches into his briefcase and removes a large envelope and hands it to me “the lease amendment for Mr. Thigpen in 1A…I was going to slide it under his door, but if you could get him to sign it and bring it by the office, I would appreciate it”

  I take the envelope from him “Sure thing.”

  “The beginning of a beautiful partnership” he says

  “I always thought we already had a beautiful partnership” I say

  Ron laughs “a more beautiful partnership, then”

  “I will bring it by the office as soon as I get it back from him” I say

  “No rush. “

  Then, he shakes my hand again and says “In the meantime, you might want to consider getting some rest. You are looking a little worn down”

  “Too much exercise”

  He looks down at my feet again “It looks like your body might be agreeing with you there, pal”

  I say goodbye to him, and watch as he leaves, the heavy front door slamming behind him. Then, I return the mop and bucket to the maintenance closet, and go and knock on Donald’s door. There is no answer, so I return to my apartment and write a note on the front of the envelope asking him to sign the enclosed documents and return them to me, and go back down stairs and slide the parcel under his door. Then I go back up to my apartment. I search the entire place again for a sign of my shoes, but I still cannot find them. Cleaning the hallway had given me a bit of time to clear my head, but back in my home, the panic over the event of the previous evening returns. I consider seeking out some more minor projects around the building to occupy my time, but decide against it, and turn on the stereo instead. I cue up some Fugazi, and let the sounds of 80s hardcore drown out my thoughts for a while, but it only works for seconds at a time, so I turn the music louder, and then louder still until I can feel the beat inside of my body. After a while though, the music loses its effect, and I turn it off, and lie down on the bed and try to rest. My resting body causes my mind to revolt, and soon, my thoughts are racing even faster than before as I imagine dozens of horrible scenarios that could have resulted in the loss of my shoes and the black hole of my memory.

  I put on my earmuffs and try to mediate for a while, but my mind will not let me relax, so without any other options, I seek the only universal refuge for the tormented and collect my keys and wallet and put on my shower sandals and leave the building. Fortunately, the only bar on my street opens early, and as I walk into its cool stale darkness there are already two other lost souls occupying the stools. I sit down and order a beer, which I drink quickly and order another. The service is prompt, nonjudgmental and impersonal. I sit and have three beers in the presence, not company, of the other two men, as they drink silently, and blow their cigarette smoke towards the television showing the morning news. The alcohol hits my empty stomach quickly, and I bask in the familiar cloudy headed comfort of the beer for a while, and am happy that no one wants to talk. By noon, I am earnestly drunk, and the bar begins to welcome some noisier patrons who mostly ignore the skinny man in dress pants and shower sandals with his eyes fixed onto the television. When the bartender’s shift is over, another equally efficient one replaces her, and she makes me the mayonnaise and tomato sandwich which will serve as my dinner. Slowly, the early regulars drift away and are replaced by the afternoon patrons who give way to small groups of students, who drink quickly, talk loudly and are prone to the overt friendliness of novice drinkers. A few of them recognize me as the person who rented them their apartment, and try to start conversations with me that I do my best to reciprocate, and I find myself elaborating on my fabricated story about a barefoot running injury.

  After a while, I am coaxed into a few games of pool that I play poorly but enthusiastically, and I work hard to make myself into a pleasant unobtrusive companion. Then, I get a flash of panic that I will say too much outside of my own will, so I excuse myself, pay my tab and walk home. As I exit the bar a rush of air provides a cold reminder of the world outside of the tavern, and I walk home slanting my body into the wind, and trying to maintain my failing balance. My sandal fails before I do and the separation of the thong before the sole causes me to fall hard onto the sidewalk. I sit on the ground for a while and try to repair the sandal, but my motor skills decide against it, and I resign to walking home with one functional shoe.

  In my apartment, I drink a glass of milk and fall into a deep dreamless sleep. I wake in a heavy sweat at three in the morning and manage to drag my tired body to the bathroom where I am too tired to stand to urinate. I sit on the toilet and fall briefly asleep and lose my balance, and again return to my bed. I wake for good at nine in the morning to a flash of panic about another forgotten night. I make myself something to eat, and try to reconstruct the events of the previous day, and am happy to discover that I mostly managed to conduct myself normally, and for a few blissful moments, I sit and eat and remember the inside of the bar and companionship, and then my memory catches up with me again and points out the broken shoe, and the broken shoe recalls its missing cousin, and its missing cousin is a memento of a missing day, and I am back in the place where I began.

  And I sit and think about all the times where alcohol was only a delay, and not a solution, and so I resolve to do something productive. So, I shower and shave, and with some duct tape, reassemble my sandal into a partially functional piece of footwear, and collect a pair of socks and go out into the street to the bus stop. I get on the first bus that comes, and ride i
t for a long while through neighborhoods I don’t know until finally it stops at a small promising looking shopping center. I get off and walk around the small outdoor mall in my tired sandals with my feet aching, and am disappointed to find that there is no decent shoe store. I try on a few pairs at a retail big box store, but all of them pinch my aching feet, so I return to the bus stop again and wait. The next bus finally does take me to a mall with a good variety of shoe stores, and I find a durable pair that will tolerate a lot of walking and look respectable enough for the springtime rental season.

  It is late when I get home, but I am satisfied with the new shoes, and am happy to sit for a while and confuse acquisition with accomplishment, and I look over my worktable and consider making some new heads, but my mind feels genuinely ready to rest, so I start to prepare myself for an early slumber when I hear a knock at my door. I open it, and Donald is standing there.

  “You don’t have no robe, or nothing?” He says when I open the door. And I look down at myself and realize that I am without a shirt, and I invite him inside, and turn around to find one

  When I return, Donald says “where’s all you stuff?”

  “This is all my stuff” I say turning to look at my apartment

  “Here I thought you