Gourmet

Nelson woke to the sound of his father's laughter. It was such a rare sound that for a moment he had no idea what it was. It wasn't until he heard his mother's voice answer that he remembered that he was in trouble again.
"Don't laugh. It's not funny. He made a bloody, goddamn mess all over my kitchen. It took me two hours to clean it up."

He was surprised that there was so much blood. It had unnerved him for a moment, but with a shrug he reached for another corpse, reminding himself that his mother often put paper towel down, under the cutting board, to sop up the 'juices'.

"It was like walking into a slaughter house. He had them lined up in a row and was working on them like some sort of mad scientist."

This provoked another howl from his father. Neslon smiled to himself in the darkness of his room where he had been since his mother came home from her jazzercise class. He wondered if his father would come in and sit on the edge of his bed and, with a smile, tell him not to scare the old bird like that. Then, they would laugh at her hysterical reaction and with a wink his father would say, "Now, how about some dessert to go with that dinner?" It seemed as likely as hearing his father laugh.

The house grew quiet and for a moment Nelson wondered if that was it. Then he heard his mother's voice again and he winced into the darkness.
"Would it kill you to take an interest in this family? All I want is for you to pretend you care about us every once in a while."
"What I care about is coming home to a hot meal. Do you think you could do that for me? I work my ass off every day for the two of you and I'd like to come home to a hot meal and some peace and quiet."
"Well, welcome to my world. What do you think I do all day? I work and then I come home and do you think all I want to do is clean up this goddamn pig-sty and cook a meal for you? And where were you? It's past nine. How many beers have you had? You think I wouldn't like to unwind after work? No, I get to come home and find that little monster playing Frankenstein in the kitchen."
Nelson sighed into the sheets. He'd only made things worse. He was so sure that his mother would appreciate him trying to help. The idea had come to him as he watched television a few days before, lying on the floor, trying to be quiet. His father pushed the buttons on the remote randomly and paused to watch a squat old lady put a plate of food down in front of an enthusiastic audience. His father had said, "That looks good. Why don't you ever cook like that?", to which his mother replied, "Just bring me the frogs."

Norman's Loss

I heard the bottle drop from inside, where it sounded like a gunshot. All I could see through the doors was Norman circling the pile of shattered glass but I could hear Sophie wail into the night. They had been doing the huddle on the sidewalk, trying to hide their prize from the sharp eyes of the rest of the crowd and now it was splattered all over the pavement.
Norman's instincts took over first and he veered away from the mess without another word. Perhaps he knew there was no use bemoaning the disaster and still time to find some more money before the liquor store closed. Sophie was still keening into the wind and hadn't noticed that Norman was gone. She flailed her arms, making the most of the drama. When she noticed she was alone she stopped abruptly and shuffled after Norman without another sound.
I waited.

No one came to investigate. The wind howled down Cumberland and what was left of the tattered bag flapped, pinned under the glass.

I got up from my post and with a shout to my boss I pressed the security tab and the doors opened. I took a quick look around and didn't see a soul. Most of the glass was still in the bag which was dissolving in the rain and the booze but I managed to pick it up and drop it in the bin on the street corner. It was an ugly night; cold and windy with the rain coming down at a forty-five degree angle. That explained why no one noticed Norman's loss except for me. I stretched my hands to the sky, straightening my bent back, tired from four hours on the desk. It had been a slow night. When a storm comes in fast like that, the beds remain empty. It's a sad thing but most of the homeless find themselves too far away to get to the shelter and some of them even like to be out in storms like this. I can understand that. The wind and the rain will wipe the streets clean and you can't deny the hand behind it. Sometimes it can be a wonderful thing to behold. The force of it supersedes the will of the people and we all become one, indistinguishable and every one of us feeble and destitute. I like that.

With one last look up and down the street, I opened the doors and went back to my desk laughing to myself as I thought about it. Taking shelter in the shelter, I mean, when there is no shelter from the levelling hand of God. Norman was too drunk to pay attention to the message but I heard it, loud and clear. That's Norman's loss.

Every Dark Night Ends With the Sun

The dog sat looking at his master, nervously pawing at the hand that hung from the arm of the chair. He was a shameless flatterer. He couldn't understand what was being said, obviously, but it didn't stop him from recognizing that the attention he was receiving was, at best, the lazy sort of regard. He hoped that by pawing at the hand and quickly standing, tail wagging, his message would be transmitted; I'm a good dog and you want to pay attention to me. He needed the attention.
It's a natural behaviour for a dog, I thought, but then dogs are simple creatures, whose reliance on their masters is necessary for their survival.
I decided I'd had enough and went to find my coat.

The night was warm, which was a cheerful notice that the unstable weather was abating. The uncertainty of the last of the winter months has an unnerving effect on everything. I was anything but cheerful, myself. I'd played at getting along for too long and drank too much. The fresh air helped my perspective and I walked along the street feeling my spirit lighten with every step. I was startled to hear my name being called and turned to see a girl running along to catch up with me. My mood darkened for a moment as I waited, not caring to pretend at civility, even for a few more minutes.
"Can I walk with you?" she said. She was breathless and I wondered why she had departed in such a hurry to catch me.
"Sure," I said. "You've had enough?"
"I've had enough," she said, falling into step beside me.

This life is the only game in town. You're playing whether you want to or not and the only difference between you and the winner is your methodology. I've been playing poorly for so long that I've racked up a considerable debt. That is the unfortunate side-effect of bluffing for too long. Eventually you bet it all without even looking at your cards, knowing that you can fool most of the table into giving you want you want. That doesn't make you a good player, however, it just makes you a good liar.

The hum of the distant highway settled into the background as I sat on the step and finished my last cigarette. The quiet at night is good for unwinding and replaying the day's events but nothing ever gets done until the sobering sun is up and the rest of world is open for business. I undressed for bed and made my list; don't beg, don't feign interest and don't lie. Every day has a lesson, I thought, as I fell into a restless sleep.