by Extra

There's a tray balanced on his naked hairy stomach. It wobbles with every breath but his belly isn't curved enough to let it fall. Rolled back in their sockets are his eyes but he is merely sleeping. The cork lining of the tray is sticky from spilt Coke. In it are small white pills which are only generic aspirin. Also in the Coke, more fundamentally, is an unhealthy portion of white rum. The bed is itchy with wrinkles and the crumbs of "munchies" but his sleep is too sound to be bothered by such metaphorical peas. On one of his sprawled out, fish-belly white arms is a ball point pen tattoo of a hammer and anvil with a heart in-between. All these things are refuse of the previous night revealed in the dancing glow of a vapid morning show on the television.

Why is he like this you might ask. I hope you would anyway. Well, I'd love to know as well, but he won't tell me. In fact he won't wake up no matter how loud I yell. There was a commercial with an alarm clock going off but that didn't wake him. A test of the Emergency Broadcast System came on but that didn't wake him. If something hit him, maybe that would wake him but there isn't anything near the bed to fall on him. The bed can't even collapse, it hasn't a frame, just a box spring and regular mattress. An earthquake would work but that would be overkill and also completely irrelevant to any possible story. I just want to find out what's going on. So I can tell you. There isn't any point in sending someone 'round because the door is locked. I suppose I could have someone break it down but that would be almost as bad as the earthquake. Unless. . . they thought he might've committed suicide! If he looked like this last night, maybe someone would get worried! Oh, but I can't know if that is plausible until I have a better idea of what's going on.

Anything which might be called "fantastic" is out of the question. No fairies, no Jiminy Cricket-style consciences, no ineffable phantasms. I could go on for a few paragraphs why they don't belong but basically they just aren't a part of this world. Besides, it's absurd enough as it is, me not knowing what's going on. I'll just have to look for more environmental clues.

His hair is loosening from the small pony tail a rubber band is holding together. It's dyed black but chestnut brown at the roots, shit brown in his opinion (a thought, finally!) He's wearing boxers, white with sky blue flecks, but there's a pair of Levi's and a simple, black T-shirt to the left of the bed. Also on the left, but against the wall, is a faux wood finish table. Under the table is, aha!, a condom wrapper! It looks like it's been there for a long time but that fact could be significant. Supported by the table is a grey, bulbous lamp sans shade, the bottle for that rum, drained of course, and a letter stuck half-way in its envelope. From the way it's crumpled, I'd say he looked at it while finishing off that bottle. It's in a woman's handwriting, elegant but not sissy. Let's say it's addressed to, Thomas Coushay and that the posting date is around four days ago. The letter would probably explain a lot but I can't read it any more than I can wake this lout, Thomas up. On with the search.

Not far from the table, an open closet reveals a tangle of boots, shoes and sneakers, a few with socks still inside. On the rod is a comparable tangle of cheap coat hangers surrounded by shirts of both long and short-sleeved variety coming in a limited selection of earth tones, greys, and black. At one end of the rod there's a single white, padded hanger. On the shelf above the rod are two blue nylon suitcases and space for a third.

There's a Bauhaus poster (the art collective, not the band) barely hanging over the television by a thumb tack. It is the center rectangle of a trio, the other two being windows with remarkably dense shades. The right side of the room, which I have thus far ignored, provides a dresser and a bathroom door. The bathroom is the stuff stand-up comedy is made of. Suffice it to say that it's a single male's but remains functional. There are two toothbrushes on the sink. The top three drawers of the dresser are conveniently in various states of openness. First, socks and underwear. Not everything looks as clean as it should. Second, T-shirts of a rattier nature. Third, unmatched sweat shirts and pants. There's a bottom drawer which is closed but there's a tiny white corner of, lace.

Well, what can be concluded from all this? I think depression is a safe diagnosis but what is the cause, the source, the vector? Perhaps he was overcome by the untidiness of the place. Then what's the letter about? Maybe the letter is bad news from his mother, a death in the family or something. But it isn't a mother's writing and why the tattoo? It could have been a massive attack of existential angst which he promptly fled from by way of TV rays, the bottle, and a soothing letter. Or maybe the answer is unlocks the door and swings it open with a blue nylon suitcase. She drops it with a heavy thud and surveys the room and its proprietor with a questioning eye.

Finally, interaction! Things can really pick up with some dialogue. She closes her eyes and exhales. Ooo, first words; very important.

She mutters, "I knew it," and lets the shoulder bag drop off her shoulder (what else.) With a deliberate toss it lands on his feet. The bag coming down snaps his head up. Over the toppling tray, his squinting eyes see her framed in the door. The light is blinding to him in this darkness but he can make out her solid legs in black jeans and her smallish, firm breasts rounding what he guesses (correctly) to be her 'Is there a problem?' T-shirt. He feels her clenched mouth, her flared nostrils and thin nose, her darting stare more than he sees them. He turns away groggily but his eyes are wide open and worried once they are out of her view. What did he do?

"You haven't left here, have you?" She says authoritatively. "Have you?"

"You abandoned me." He says in a low, betrayed voice.

She kicks the suitcase in and slams the door. "I was gone for one week!"

He looks down at the television. "Eight days, eleven hours."

"What?" He spoke too softly.

"Nothing." He says at a level she can hear.

"Did you even bother to call Tom because I am sick of apologizing for you."

"No," he groans, rolling on his back again to stare at the ceiling. "He wouldn't understand."

"No one would, Thomas. You're broke, I get Tom to give you some work, and what do you do? You, you . . . what the hell have you been doing anyway? He didn't what to hire you, you know. He said it was confusing to have more than one Toms around. I was embarrassed for him to have to resort to an excuse like that. He said he would give you another chance as a favor to me."

"How does he want you to pay it back." Thomas says with thick innuendo.

"Don't start that crap again, Thomas. I'm sick of your self-depreciative jealousy. How is it supposed to make me feel?" She's gesticulating her arms quite a bit now. What a homecoming. I was expecting conflict but this harsh. "Should I be flattered that you care so much? Should I feel sorry for you because you feel endangered?"

He rubs his face as a fake waking up gesture. "I don't know, Diane. Sorry."

"Well you should be because, because what I really feel when you do that is that you think I'm some slut who runs around behind your back." I think she's losing some of her anger to frustration. She looks tired too.

He sits up, fairly alert. "No! No, I'd never think something like that. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He sits up on his knees and looks pretty sincere. One thing's for sure, he's not doing any fooling around. "Here, come sit down and relax."

She stops and pays attention to him. her shoulders unbunch as she turns and sits down on the edge of the bed. Immediately he pushes her straight, brown hair out of the way and begins massaging her neck. She rests her head in her hand, defeated. "I knew I should've gone home first. I've been driving since 4 a.m. but I thought, 'No, I better check on Thomas first, see if he's okay.' Stupid."

This makes much more sense than that poking around before. All it takes is two people and things can really happen.

Thomas' hands move to her shoulders, arousing a moan. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I've just been so alone."

Diane brings her head up. "This was a good job, Thomas. Dave Simmons is an excellent stage manager and a really good contact for me. Besides, I like to stay out of debt." She looks over her shoulder at him. "Is that why you didn't leave? You think that if you're completely destitute I'll let you move in?"

"Of course not, I understand you don't want that yet. I'm sorry about Tom. I'll find some work."

She slides down the bed to take a look at him. She notices his arms with a small laugh. "What in the world is that?"

Thomas rubs at the 'tattoo' and seems much more self-conscious in his near-nakedness. "Nothing, I was just messing around."

"Aw, is that Tommy's little heart being broken?" she says with another chuckle. "Thomas, you are the most melodramatic person I know."

He acts hurt. "Even more than that ballet guy you were with?"

She stands, tensing up again. "Oh, don't you-"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." he says almost cowering.

"Stop saying that!"

"I'm- ." He stops himself.

"That's why you spent the week sulking in here, isn't it? You thought I was off with a dancer!" She's really beginning to simmer. Her head is bobbing a little.

"Well, it was the second job in a month you took with his troupe. . ." Thomas replies feebly.

"That's it. I'm leaving." Diane grabs her shoulder bag off the bed and goes to pick up the suitcase. Thomas awkwardly springs up and grabs her arm with both hands.

"I'm sorry, I'm- I didn't mean it. I won't say anything else, just stay awhile longer." he pleads.

She opens the door while he still has hold of her suitcase arm. With a calmness, she says, "Dry up." and gives him a firm push in the chest. He allows himself to fall back and he hits the bed as the door slams.

His head barely touched the tray but he acts like he was knocked out. She didn't hear the crash over the slam of the door he thinks. She'll find me laying here and then she'll be sorry.

I'm 'getting in his head' finally but I almost wish I wasn't. What a sap! His hair is completely free of the rubber band but is now stuck in the tray mess. The poster still sways in the current made by the door slammed shut. He lays there motionless and imagines the poster falling and draping over him, blood flowing, being found by the landlord, Diane crying behind a black veil. He continues knotting such fantasies until he drifts into sleep.