Take Away the Saints

Smoke 'em Up : Dirty Laundry || Ian R. Cooper

The power is out in the building again. The lights shut off first, then a split second later, the microwave stops heating my shitty freeze dried oatmeal. I can hear the kids next door crying because they can't watch an animated sponge flip hamburgers anymore. Lisa waddles in from the bedroom and yells my name.

"Carl! Power's out!"

"I'm right here, woman. And what, exactly, do you want me to do about it? I'm not the power company."

"Call the super!"

"You think nobody else done thought of that? Besides, all he's gonna do is call the power company."

"Y'know, it wouldn't hurt you to take a little initiative."

"Yeah, alright," I concede. No reason to start fighting too early. I'm more of an afternoon pugilist. At least I made a pot of coffee before the electricity blew. I pour myself a second cup and pick up the phone. The super's number is attached to the fridge with a magnet. I punch it in and let the line ring.

"Y'ello."

"Hey Sully. Power's out."

"Yep, and you're the lucky tenth caller. Show him what he's won, Barbara!"

"No need to be a smartass. The old lady's up in arms about it. Probably hormones."

"How far along is she?"

"Three months. Feels like forever."

"Just wait 'til it's eighteen years before you can kick the little bastard out."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Sully."

"Anytime partner. And hey, congratulations."

"Hmmmh."

"You know it's not the breakers, right? Power company has to take care of it. Rolling blackouts or something."

"I told her as much."

"Tell me you didn't use logic with a pregnant woman."

"Yeah, my mistake. I'll let you get back to it; talk at you later Sully."

The bottom of the cup is filled with dregs, but I turn it up anyway. Good thing my taste buds were already burned out. I dig around in my pocket and take out an almost empty pack of smokes. There are only two left. I light up and let the tobacco and tar seep into my lungs. That first one of the day, it gives you a little head rush around the third or fourth drag. Then you spend the rest of the day chasing that. Anything that stresses you, have a cigarette. Any job well done, have a cigarette. Eat a satisfying meal, have a cigarette. Sex? You bet your ass that's a cigarette. Doesn't matter if it was bad or good, the cigarette will make it that much better.

Not that there was any sex or good meals going on lately. Having a baby is the ultimate pass for any work that needs to be done. Lisa hasn't lifted a finger since that piss strip turned blue. The honey-do list gets longer every day, and I don't even get the courtesy of a "honey" for it all. Feels more like a bitch-fetch list. And this bitch is getting tired of fetching.

I stare into the trash can at the unused condom I found last night. I pulled it out of the nightstand drawer after Lisa fell asleep last night and filled it with water. No need to be silent, she sleeps like the dead these days. Sure enough, the son of a bitch sprung a leak. I just kinda stared into the mirror until I couldn't stand the sight of my own face, then I crawled back into bed. Not much I could do about it; there's no un-ringing that bell short of an 'accident' down the tenement stairs. I know that's pretty fucked up, but all I can imagine now is some snot-nosed brat bawling his eyes out over a faggot-ass cartoon sponge.