Hmm, I was looking through my old stories and I used to write a lot. I have to pull myself together. I think I was 16 when I wrote this. That was TWENTY ONE years ago. Sigh.
He ate his cereal and told her he was going insane.
“What do you mean, going insane? You don’t look insane to me,” the woman protested.
He looked down at his bowl and stirred the cereal moodily.
“Yesterday, I saw a boy in the park. I walk by there sometimes after work. There are redwoods and oaks. The boy, he came up to me and asked me a question. Want to know what it was?”
“That’s nice.” She stuck her pinky in her mouth, just a little, and licked it. The spring Liz Claiborne catalog lay open in front of her.
“I’m horny,” she said plainly, blinking her fake eyelashes.
“Fine,” he replied.
Afterwards, she lit a cigarette in the bedroom, exhaled and put her hand on his forehead. “Better?”
“Sure,” he agreed. “You better leave. My wife will be home in a few minutes.”
She snubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and got up. As she dressed, he lay there and looked at her. How he wanted to kill her.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she called as she walked out the door.
He stayed in bed a while longer. It was only six o’clock. His wife shouldn’t be home for an hour. He wondered what the boy from the park was doing.
He didn’t think he would go in to work tomorrow, either. Mr. Wilson could just find somebody else to do the payroll. In fact, Mr. Wilson could kiss his white ass. All those phony bastards, with their 400 dollar suits and saccharine grins, and always telling a guy to count this or distribute that. Why, they could write their own god damn checks. Write themselves silly. They could take the whole big fucking stack of checks and go mad, by god. Crowd into an office grabbing for pens and scribbling, by the fires of hell, furiously inscribing numerals and names and bleed the pen’s blue blood all over the office.
He dialed his office and got the receptionist.
“Hello, Catherine? It’s Bill Banks. Sorry I didn’t call this morning. I’ve got a bug and won’t be in tomorrow, either. Hmm? Tell Mr. Wilson I was too sick to call. Well, tell him tomorrow then. No, I’ll be in bed and won’t be able to call then, either. Bye, now.”
He put the phone down and sat up. When he felt like it, he went downstairs and made some coffee. Took a Valium. Turned on the TV and found Oprah. God love the woman, fixing everyone so easily.
His wife came in at ten past six. She put her keys on the table and called to him.
The house remained silent. She walked into the family room and put her coat on the sofa. Oprah was on TV, talking to an overweight woman, nodding like a madwoman. “I know, dear. But you’re beautiful, inside and out. Isn’t she beautiful ladies and gentleman?” and began clapping. The audience roared their approval.
“I’m home early. Where are you?” Receiving no answer she went into the kitchen to make some tea. Of course he’s not home, you silly twit, she thought, he’s working on the payroll. Calm down. He’ll be at least an hour. She took a Valium with her tea and phoned Marcus.
“He’s gone,” she breathed.
Marcus came over ten minutes later. They made love on the kitchen table for nearly an hour, the wooden legs rocking amidst frenzied grunts and her loud screaming. When they were finished, his back was bleeding.
He lit a cigarette. “You got a beer?”
“You know Bill doesn’t drink. Pepsi alright?”
“Fine.” He scratched his stomach and pulled up his pants. “Coke’s better, but Pepsi’s fine.” He walked over to the pantry to grab something to eat. “You sure your husband won’t be coming home?”
“He’s got their whole payroll to get in order,” she grinned, “not until at least eight o’clock.”
He grunted and got some chips. They took the stuff upstairs, naked, their feet padding on the linoleum. The third step squeaked. In the bedroom they found Bill lying in bed. A shotgun was propped between his legs and his head was missing, brains splattered like grape jelly on the headboard.
