Monday, August 11, 2008

The Box (Part Two)

He got home as usual around 8 p.m. That was the great thing about being a journalist. He could always claim he was chasing a story when most times he was chasing a skirt. But tonight he actually had been working late. One of those tips that sounds great but a dozen calls later he had nothing but hot air. Frustrated he headed out of the newsroom to the Port Authority to grab the 7:10 bus.

It wasn't even May yet and the humidity was already unbearable. He worked up a sweat during the walk from the bus station to the house. While walking through the park he spied some kids drinking beer in the woods near the brook. He was never much of a drinker but they sure looked free of worry as they passed a joint back and forth.

As he approached the house he noticed the car was gone. Good, at least the kids were out of the house. Hopefully she had his dinner ready. Maybe he'd manage to have a quiet night.

He walked in and announced his arrival. The cat looked up, yawned, and walked away. The house was strangely silent. He saw a dim light in the dining room. He walked in and saw his plate of chicken livers on top of a box.

"What's this, a gift?," he asked.

"Yes, it was the gift you left for me in the bedroom," she replied coolly.

"What are you talking about?" he said.

"Open it," she responded.

"Look," he said sighing, "I've had a long day so can we just cut through this and you can tell me what's going on?"

"They're the mementos of your conquests," she said, adding, "why don't you pour some ketchup on them and choke. Oh, and thanks so much for bringing them with us to our new house and leaving them out for me to find. That was so very special."

He walked over to the box, took the plate off and looked inside. Then he looked down paused for a second and started to walk towards her.

"Don't bother," she said.

"You're my wife and I love you," he said trying to keep his voice steady.

"Jesus, what is that? That makes this OK? What script did you steal that line from," she said.

He continued to walk towards her.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She looked down for a second then punched him in the eye, walked upstairs and slammed the bedroom door.

He headed to the kitchen, grabbed a Diet Pepsi and a bottle of ketchup, went back to the dining room, grabbed the chicken livers and headed to the little room to watch TV while he ate.

1 comment:

tourguide said...

I used to walk around the campus with a dog-eared copy of Ferlinghetti's poetry in my back pocket. I hoped it would magically draw girls to a person of such high intellect and social discernment.
One day my dreams came true. A girl walked up to me in Washington Square and said, in a husky voice, "I see you like Ferlinghetti too."
She then ran her tongue across her upper lip, and moaned lightly but audibly.
"Why don't you come back to my room and recite?" she said, slowly unbuttoning her top.
In her room, she admitted to getting really turned on by the military-industrial complex, and made me shout "Eisenhower" when I was close to completion.
Afterwards, we smoked some "reefer," as the Mississippi blues players called it.
I'll never know what became of her, but still think of the amazing sexual powers of a paperback in my back pocket.