It might have been the casual smile the maintenance man shrouded his face along with the half a smudge of mustard from afternoon lunch, adorably placed next to the smooth bulge of his upper lip, that first captivated her eye. His soft, green eyes against the 5 o’clock shadow and just ever so slightly sun-burnt skin. Crisped to perfection. And in spite of the unstable economic times and his poor financial prospects, her eyes were misted over by his elusive charm and rugged persona. They eloped, married, and had a child. Tan skin and light brown hair that protruded in starched bundles haphazard around his head- he was nicknamed Coconut.
But their hasty relationship founded on a spur of passion could not tear them from the scourge of unemployment and destitution. He lost his job and sat inebriating himself daily, sipping more of the pain with every tick of the clock. She doubled her shifts rotating between local convenience stores based on pay, scheduling, and number of break-ins until her soul could not defend itself from the force of the occurrences. Whether he was a deserved or undeserved target stress ball for her angst, the relationship had become tenuous and finally, the last cables snapped.
She stepped out of the shower to baby Coconut’s cries. She knew she would have to get to him at one point but for now established a mental barrier against his wails. She stepped into the living room and felt the bile creep at her larynx when she saw him now. The grease stains on his dilapidated undershirt now offset the quaint curdle of sauce near the fold between his lips that might have enticed her in the past. He had shaved however unevenly, and now his beard made wave patterns across his face, the image of hedge maze in a carnival hall of mirrors. And bags and bottles, oil and sweat intermingled across his face and the couch.
“Jim, it’s been over three months and you have not made one move to get a job…Jim, shove your lazy bottom off the cush….Jim?....Jim!”
He sat leisurely, staring blankly at the image of the Playboy girls giggling in high-pitched unison at an obscure late night talk show who clearly had been affected by the writers’ strike.
“Jim, I know you hear me.”
“I know you see me too Liz, but you’re not seeing the fact that I’m watching the TV.” Coconut continued to cry, taking occasional pauses for breath.
“Jim, this is getting ridiculous. I cannot work in such a pattern anymore and we are falling farther and farther back in debt. Credit cards, loans, and our expenses are just suffocating. I feel like I am constantly surrounded by problems and stress and…I don’t know how much longer I’ll last, Jim. I’m going to cave.” Jim switched off the television and waited until the static buzz of the old-fashioned television died done to a muted buzz.
“Liz, I’ve’n trying to get a job and I can’t do no better. It’s not like I don’t appreciate what you’ve been doing and I’ve been watching… the baby…yeah… and…”, smirked.
“Oh, and about that. I talked to Susie next door and she said she’s been doing everything for him: changing diapers, feeding him, bathing him… even going to the grocery store for us! We can’t make her do that, you lazy, good for nothing…”
“HEY, hey, hey! Don’t you dare insult my work ethic! I worked my tail off to support this family! It’s not my fault Bush wants to drill into some Muslim sinkhole and ruin the entire balance of the world…good, honest, working citizens like me.” Liz’s face tightened and her eyebrows curled inward to form a single, savage unibrow.
“Honest citizen, eh? What is whiskey doing in your underwear drawer? You know, I haven’t had anything but frozen TV dinners for the past five months and you’re drinking our savings down the drain! You got no shame, no dignity? No care for me! YOU LIL’…” At this point, Coconut’s crying intensified.
“Hold on, there. I been ‘speriencing a lot of stress lately and I think I deserve…
“Get out.”
He paused. Coconut screamed.
“What?” She did not budge.
“Liz, what are you talkin’ about?” Another yelp from Coconut though he was quieting down. She paused and walk back toward her room to him. He turned around and exhaled, before waving his hand and shooing the problem away. She returned to the doorway holding the oak- varnished pine plant holders he had made for her, fitted with several small mirrors around the house. She hurled them at the back of his head as he turned around. The plant holder punctured his nose and blood spattered on to the furniture. He fell back on the sofa, unconscious as glass shards wafted in the air back in forth with his discontinuous snorts of breath.
She dragged him out by his feet and into the back of the beaten up 1974 Chevy Camaro before unceremoniously abandoning him on the side of a country road ten miles from their home on the other side of town. She drove off before he woke up.
At home, Coconut had fallen asleep with a full diaper and a grumbling stomach
*
It was four days later and Coconut smelled of feces. She slept soundly on an unkempt mattress surrounded with the various sides and accompaniments of both macaroni and cheese and baked chicken TV dinners, some of which remained frozen. The bedfitter currently covered her entire face.
She eventually aroused herself awake and the smell of the baby’s crib jerked her head up. She was forced to change the baby’s diapers at risk of poisoning the air and bathed the boy. The morning wove on into afternoon. She stood in the kitchen, scraping tomato sauce and burnt butter from the stove top, caked on by previous owners of her ranch shack – her sanctuary. Tears fell as she slipped and bruised her tendon on the oven side, staring in agony at the dust-ridden savannah that her backyard had become, forever seemingly shrouded in twilight.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
An advancing tone struck her ears along with the whirr of a tumultuous engine. The floor vibrated just enough for her to hear her lags chattering. The tones grew louder until they became deafening.
And then, they were gone. At least to her. Outside, he had stood at the controls of a tall crane, dangling a green trailer home by the rails. It’s plant embroidery now protruded like a pop-up book from the soil amidst a plain of doldrum-dusted, Midwestern sands, entangled with splintered vinyl siding the color of apricots. The house was no more but chunks of misshapen rubble.
The neighbors had already bolted out of their own shacks to view the cause of such a massive collision. The town had never seen the likes of this nor a chase as magnitudinous as the police’s pursuit of his sorry self. But within the hubbub and police investigations, one sound was not heard. No one could recall the crunching grind that popped from the side of the house where two doll hands still clasped the wind-sieved sand hung out from the former basement and gel the color of retinas were pulverized into insect feed. It was almost as if someone, right there at the time of the crash, cracked a coconut and pale pink milk now trickled down from the steaming asphalt, pitter-pattering on the side of the road down into the sewers below.
But their hasty relationship founded on a spur of passion could not tear them from the scourge of unemployment and destitution. He lost his job and sat inebriating himself daily, sipping more of the pain with every tick of the clock. She doubled her shifts rotating between local convenience stores based on pay, scheduling, and number of break-ins until her soul could not defend itself from the force of the occurrences. Whether he was a deserved or undeserved target stress ball for her angst, the relationship had become tenuous and finally, the last cables snapped.
She stepped out of the shower to baby Coconut’s cries. She knew she would have to get to him at one point but for now established a mental barrier against his wails. She stepped into the living room and felt the bile creep at her larynx when she saw him now. The grease stains on his dilapidated undershirt now offset the quaint curdle of sauce near the fold between his lips that might have enticed her in the past. He had shaved however unevenly, and now his beard made wave patterns across his face, the image of hedge maze in a carnival hall of mirrors. And bags and bottles, oil and sweat intermingled across his face and the couch.
“Jim, it’s been over three months and you have not made one move to get a job…Jim, shove your lazy bottom off the cush….Jim?....Jim!”
He sat leisurely, staring blankly at the image of the Playboy girls giggling in high-pitched unison at an obscure late night talk show who clearly had been affected by the writers’ strike.
“Jim, I know you hear me.”
“I know you see me too Liz, but you’re not seeing the fact that I’m watching the TV.” Coconut continued to cry, taking occasional pauses for breath.
“Jim, this is getting ridiculous. I cannot work in such a pattern anymore and we are falling farther and farther back in debt. Credit cards, loans, and our expenses are just suffocating. I feel like I am constantly surrounded by problems and stress and…I don’t know how much longer I’ll last, Jim. I’m going to cave.” Jim switched off the television and waited until the static buzz of the old-fashioned television died done to a muted buzz.
“Liz, I’ve’n trying to get a job and I can’t do no better. It’s not like I don’t appreciate what you’ve been doing and I’ve been watching… the baby…yeah… and…”, smirked.
“Oh, and about that. I talked to Susie next door and she said she’s been doing everything for him: changing diapers, feeding him, bathing him… even going to the grocery store for us! We can’t make her do that, you lazy, good for nothing…”
“HEY, hey, hey! Don’t you dare insult my work ethic! I worked my tail off to support this family! It’s not my fault Bush wants to drill into some Muslim sinkhole and ruin the entire balance of the world…good, honest, working citizens like me.” Liz’s face tightened and her eyebrows curled inward to form a single, savage unibrow.
“Honest citizen, eh? What is whiskey doing in your underwear drawer? You know, I haven’t had anything but frozen TV dinners for the past five months and you’re drinking our savings down the drain! You got no shame, no dignity? No care for me! YOU LIL’…” At this point, Coconut’s crying intensified.
“Hold on, there. I been ‘speriencing a lot of stress lately and I think I deserve…
“Get out.”
He paused. Coconut screamed.
“What?” She did not budge.
“Liz, what are you talkin’ about?” Another yelp from Coconut though he was quieting down. She paused and walk back toward her room to him. He turned around and exhaled, before waving his hand and shooing the problem away. She returned to the doorway holding the oak- varnished pine plant holders he had made for her, fitted with several small mirrors around the house. She hurled them at the back of his head as he turned around. The plant holder punctured his nose and blood spattered on to the furniture. He fell back on the sofa, unconscious as glass shards wafted in the air back in forth with his discontinuous snorts of breath.
She dragged him out by his feet and into the back of the beaten up 1974 Chevy Camaro before unceremoniously abandoning him on the side of a country road ten miles from their home on the other side of town. She drove off before he woke up.
At home, Coconut had fallen asleep with a full diaper and a grumbling stomach
*
It was four days later and Coconut smelled of feces. She slept soundly on an unkempt mattress surrounded with the various sides and accompaniments of both macaroni and cheese and baked chicken TV dinners, some of which remained frozen. The bedfitter currently covered her entire face.
She eventually aroused herself awake and the smell of the baby’s crib jerked her head up. She was forced to change the baby’s diapers at risk of poisoning the air and bathed the boy. The morning wove on into afternoon. She stood in the kitchen, scraping tomato sauce and burnt butter from the stove top, caked on by previous owners of her ranch shack – her sanctuary. Tears fell as she slipped and bruised her tendon on the oven side, staring in agony at the dust-ridden savannah that her backyard had become, forever seemingly shrouded in twilight.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
An advancing tone struck her ears along with the whirr of a tumultuous engine. The floor vibrated just enough for her to hear her lags chattering. The tones grew louder until they became deafening.
And then, they were gone. At least to her. Outside, he had stood at the controls of a tall crane, dangling a green trailer home by the rails. It’s plant embroidery now protruded like a pop-up book from the soil amidst a plain of doldrum-dusted, Midwestern sands, entangled with splintered vinyl siding the color of apricots. The house was no more but chunks of misshapen rubble.
The neighbors had already bolted out of their own shacks to view the cause of such a massive collision. The town had never seen the likes of this nor a chase as magnitudinous as the police’s pursuit of his sorry self. But within the hubbub and police investigations, one sound was not heard. No one could recall the crunching grind that popped from the side of the house where two doll hands still clasped the wind-sieved sand hung out from the former basement and gel the color of retinas were pulverized into insect feed. It was almost as if someone, right there at the time of the crash, cracked a coconut and pale pink milk now trickled down from the steaming asphalt, pitter-pattering on the side of the road down into the sewers below.
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