This story was published in the Polar
Expressions anthology “Below The Canopy” in 2009. It was my attempt to write from a male point
of view, first person.
HIS RANT
He lives in the apartment over the
three-bay carriage house. Not because he
wants to, that’s for sure. Only because
the bitch he’s married to doesn’t want him in the house anymore. Take your shoes off. Don’t touch the walls. Don’t smoke.
Don’t sit here. Don’t go
there. Don’t let the dog on the
furniture. Don’t put your feet on the coffee table. Don’t walk on the clean floor. Don’t leave dirty dishes around. Don’t throw your clothes on the floor. Don’t leave beer bottles in the den. And for God’s sake, don’t ever go in the
living room with all her fancy furniture. Damn it! You’d think she was curator of a museum or
something.
Never
mind he slaved his ass off to buy the property in the first place. No way does she acknowledge that. She just
acts as if it’s all hers, like it’s her special right. But at least he was smart enough not to put
her name on anything. So if she wants out of the marriage she’ll have to really
fight him to get a cent. He’ll pay the
bills to keep the property out of hawk, but anything else she can pay for
herself. See how she likes them apples.
Dumb
bitch. He just got so fed up with all her complaining about what a slob he was,
he moved out to the garage. Piss on her! He’d live any way he damned well pleased
now. He didn’t have to wash up to sit at
any table with her. And he sure as hell
didn’t have to bathe first to get into bed anymore. So what if the grease on his arms rubbed off
on the sheets. And so what if he liked
to eat in bed while he watched T.V. A
few crumbs never hurt anybody. And he
could leave the toilet seat up all the time if it suited him.
Now
he could drink beer all day on a Saturday.
He could twist a top off at eight in the morning and there wouldn’t be
anything she could say or do about it.
Hell, she wouldn’t even know about it.
And he could have himself a feed of fried pyrogies and garlic sausage
every night for supper, too. No more effin’
rabbit food. So what if it was Sunday
and she’d always cooked a roast and yorkshire pudding. He could feed himself. He didn’t need to put up with any more of her
crap in order to eat something, that’s for sure.
And there wouldn’t be any more
visiting with her family. He wouldn’t
have to be pleasant to her mother and he wouldn’t have to act like her kids
were his own, either. They could all go
plumb to hell. His own kids didn’t
bother with him anymore, so why should he have to put up with hers?
This bitch just kept saying she was tired of
being blamed for what the first wife did, especially since he still had the
first wife listed as beneficiary on everything.
Should never have married a second time.
The first time was bad enough.
That one had taken everything.
But he’d been able to live with that ‘cause she got custody of the kids,
first one did. Had to take care of his
own kids, never mind they never had any time for him. Truth be told, both women had just been out
to get whatever they could from him. No,
he wasn’t going to write a will. He
wasn’t going to make it easier for anybody.
Nobody ever helped him.
Setting
the tenth empty beer bottle on the table beside his old and torn recliner, he takes
the last puff of his cigarette and puts it out in the overfilled ashtray. He does an unsteady sideways shuffle to the
bathroom and fumbles with the fly on his jeans before he’s able to relieve
himself. He absently gazes at the empty
paper towel holder and remembers he still has to buy toilet paper, too. He would brush his teeth, but he doesn’t have
any toothpaste. The towel is so filthy,
he decides not to shave. He hasn’t gone
out anywhere today because he doesn’t know which clothes on the floor are clean
or dirty.
Stupid
bitch. It was all her fault.
He
flops on his badly rumpled bed that smells as rank as he feels. He passes out wondering what she’s cooking
for dinner.
________________________________
By Lisa A. Hatton
Enjoyed reading this. 👍
ReplyDeleteLoving your writings!!!
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