The Slob

I pulled up to the house in The Slob’s red pick-up truck and killed the ignition. I dragged myself out from the driver seat, still barefoot. I felt grateful to feel the damp dew of the grass between my toes once again. As I limped closer to the garage door, I could sense my fingers trembling with eagerness. It was a sight I wasn’t sure I’d ever see again. It was a place I’d only recently learned to call home, but I missed it in a way you would the place you grew up.

Most of my thoughts were consumed with fear. A terror for the uncertainty of my future and the uncertainty of Daniel’s reaction to my mangled state. None of it mattered right then though, the only thing that mattered was that I was back and the code to the garage door still burned in my mind. Our wedding date: 10-10-88.

I thought about the probability of me never being able to enter this code again. The odds seemed grim yet, somehow, I’d made it. After punching all of the numbers into the keypad, I heard the familiar sound of the mechanical tract lifting upward. I guess I should’ve expected what I saw next.

The few weeks I’d been away felt more like a lifetime. It must’ve felt like a lifetime for Daniel too as evidenced by the scene that confronted me.

Daniel’s treasured ‘68 Plymouth Road Runner was all but demolished. Every window had either been spider-webbed or blown out altogether. The car’s body was plagued with dents and scratches and the interior seating was slashed all to hell.

Even smaller things like the rearview mirror inside and both side mounts had been shattered. He must’ve blamed himself for what happened to me, if I just let him sell the damn thing, none of this would’ve happened. Instead, it just became another ingredient in the perfect storm.

When I stepped into the house, I could see in the short time I was gone that things had deteriorated rapidly. Without my presence, the demons of Daniel’s past had returned. The dusk, the despair, the misery, the anxiety. They had all resurfaced in screaming fashion.

Trash littered the grounds and tables, mostly the accumulation of beer and liquor empties. Beverages that one might soak themselves in when they feel like nothing else matters. I hadn’t seen this level of uncleanliness in my home since I was a kid. The sight of it all, and everything I had just left behind, overwhelmed me.

I stood in the kitchen entryway while Daniel laid slumped over in his wheelchair, face pushed into the inside of his elbow like a child sleeping during class. He was still clenching his old friend, Jim Beam. While I wasn’t here, he needed someone, anyone. So, he was hanging out with Jim again.

I walked up to the table and leaned against it which startled him. It was almost like he’d snapped out of a night terror. He looked up at me in disbelief, most likely staring at the exposed nose bone and peppered lumping all over my face. His eyes were glossy and widened while his mouth was frozen and speechless.

“Looks like it’s time for us to clean this place up,” I said, forcing a smile.