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Sunday, April 20, 2014

All the Nuts aren’t with The Pancake’s Part 18

The car wheezes to a stop directly in front of the house. The fan belt spins a couple of extra times, causing the car to cough and sputter. I am now starting to have problems with my car. It registers hot the minute I turn it on. I have had to pull over twice last week, shut it down on the side of the road and open the windows. It allegedly cools the car down. A customer told me that.

I know that I am supposed to now park my car around the corner. It’s a Chris/George rule but I am worried that this may be as far as the car gets this morning. Sitting in front of the house, I take this as a moment to be alone, all alone.

I shake a Marlboro Light out of my pack, slide it into the corner of my mouth and light up. As I blow the smoke into the air, I lower my window. Somewhere in the distance someone is listening to Twisted Sister. I recognize the “Thump, Thump,” I am hearing.

“Oh well, I can’t sit in the car forever.” I say out load to no one. I pop the lock on the door and give it a big push. The driver’s door groans open. “Gotta get that fixed,” I think to myself as I swing my legs out. Standing up, I slam the door. It groans closed as well.

I lean against the car and power smoke the rest of my cigarette. Flicking it into the air, (so it’s not found in front of the house) I turn and head up the path.

Something is odd. I start to slow down when I notice that the front door is wide open and that the screen door is propped open as well.

The Twisted Sister music is pumping out of the front widows of Georges house.

I slowly climb the front steps. I’m not going to call out and announce myself until I know what is going on. I have never found Georges house like this, usually it is wrapped up tight, sealed like a drum. I have a bad feeling and it’s clear something’s wrong.

I step into the front entryway and peer around the corner into the living room.  The first chair closest to the doorway is George’s. The chair is in full recline mode and someone’s sitting in it.

I slowly lean forward to get a look at who is there. I am both relieved and pissed off when I see Chris sitting in Georges chair. His eyes are closed and a half bottle of Jack Daniels sits on the table between the two recliners.

The television is on as well and Chris is snoring, his mouth hangs open.

“Chris?” I whisper loudly.

He doesn’t stir or even acknowledge me, it’s clear he is out cold.

I tiptoe past the living room to search the rest of the house. The dogs have been locked in their kennels and they cry and whimper as I walk by.

“Hold on babies.” I whisper. “I’ll be back.”

Ten minutes later I have finished checking out the house. Chris and I are alone, all alone. I walk back into the living room and offer Chris a chance to change the plan I have just hatched. If he responds to me, I will change the course of what I am about to do.

“Chris?” I whisper a second time.

Still nothing, he doesn’t move. Twisted Sister is still playing at an ear deafening level from the speakers.

“It’s now or never!” my brain screams.

I reach across Chris and grab the neck of the Jack Daniels bottle. Slowly I raise the bottle above the sleeping Chris. His chest rises and falls, he is snoring steady.

I hold the bottle with one hand and uncork it with the other. Then I take the bottle and tip it forward. Jack Daniels begins pouring out of the top and onto the carpet. I make sure not to get any on me.

Chris doesn’t move or even stir as Jack Daniels splashes off the carpet and back on the recliner. Once I’m done I reach across Chris one more time and set the bottle back on the table, but this time I lay it on it’s side. It looks like it has been carelessly knocked over.

The truth is, it wasn’t and it’s about to get worse for Chris.


To be continued…


Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writing "A Day in the Life/Down the Rabbit Hole". It cannot be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

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