VI: Lord of Salvage; and the tab open

Arms crossed, Ethan fixed his gaze on a late late model Mercedes diesel sedan. The front passenger side wheel veered jaggedly at a 90 degree angle. Ineffective wiper progress marks on the mud-splattered windshield told of a last stitch effort by the car to cling to life. He considered the reality where an eccentric college professor who captained the car for eon semesters of underpaid and unappreciated work gets run off the road and into an embankment; the impact ending his listless life.

"FUCK YOU DOING!???' An oil stained [insert stereotype for mechanic] approached aggressively.  His toothless sneer indicated a drug of choice rendering him volatile and "not to be fucked with". 

"YOU CAN'T BE BACK HERE, BOY!!!"

Ethan barely had time to take offense to the racial pejorative "boy" before the man was up close and personal.

"Can't you read good?" he pointed to a sign that was so rusted, it wasn't a sign anymore. Fuck, was it ever a sign to begin with, or does this guy need Jesus and Risperdal? Ethan didn't want to know.

"Damnnn! Chill Bro. I need my car, psycho."

The Lord of the Salvage Yard didn't bat an eye; clearly all too familiar with that diagnosis. He extended his dirty paw. Ethan slowly removed a pink slip from his back pocket and emphatically presented it for all to see.

Clearly not bemused by the satire, the Lord snatched the ticket and meticulously perused the document.
"HA!" he smiled for the first time (I'd include a trite description of his dentition, but you, the reader, are smart enough to paint the picture yourself), "You're that idiot who left his car at the hospital emergency entrance. You pissed off a lot of people, boy." He sucked something through his nose and spat it out of his mouth. Classy. Satisfied, he returned the credentials (a helluva lot dirtier and crumpled than a few seconds ago) and indicated for Ethan to follow. Ethan complied, but kept a safe distance. 

They arrived at a portable, the Manor a Salvage. It was plain in color, decorated only by myriads of warnings and rules painted on metal plates, crucified to the portable. Ethan had a sneaking suspicion that they took the rules of the junkyard very seriously here.

"HEY BOY!" A sense of shock rifted through Ethan's body as the Lord  hollered, leaning out the service window of the portable. The fact that Ethan had just learned from one of the many signs posted (Beware of Owner) that, not surprisingly, they were armed in this kingdom (the context apparent by a picture of a handgun), inflamed his apprehension. For the second time in the 10 minuted he had been there, he considered cutting his loses and leaving the whip.

"You dumb of something?" The Lord patronized further, "Over here! You need to fill some papers out."

Ethan complied, ignoring his better judgement. He cautiously approached and was shocked to find that inside the portable was a well furnished office, complete with Kitty-hang-on motivational posters and a fetish amount of porcelain bobble-head dog figurines nodding their head autonomously.

"Nice office...sir" Ethan opened up, unsure himself if he was being genuine or sarcastic. In any case he hoped it was received as the former.

"I ain't no queer!" the Lord decreed, presuming the intent of my comment was a pickup. Ethan could only offer a baffled look as his only rebuttal. Honestly he didn't want to know what the fuck was going on. This could've come from a Monty Python skit, it was so bizarre.

"You needed me to fill something out?" Ethan diverted.

The Lord continued with his slow piercing gaze before pulling some papers from somewhere, all while maintaining his glare.

Ten pages worth of legal jargon flopped on the counter. Ethan had taken a LSAT prep course, but he was in no mood to exercise his knowledge with what he assumed was a straightforward and standard legal form for a junkyard. He flipped through the entire thing in a few seconds, stopping at random pages to scrutinizing the vernacular, though not entirely sure what he was looking for. He just hoped that his attentiveness to detail (or affectation of such) would deter the Lord from fucking with him. Seems legit. What's the worse that could happen?

"Yupp. Looks like everything's here." using his most confident and assured grown-up voice.

The Lord was just staring at him with an eerie crooked smile. He said nothing.

"So..." Ethan trailed off, hoping to galvanize some directives from the Lord.

The Lord continued his leer as he pointed to a single line on the last page. Even the affectatiously erudite Ethan Campbell knew the implication.

He grabbed a filthy white Bic pen from the counter, conveniently tied to what had to be the king of the porcelain dog army; his eminence  afforded to him by his size which tripled that of his brethren.

Ethan Matthews, he said in his head as he scribbled his autograph. He had to catch himself from saying, "thanks for reading", which was second nature in his book-signing days.

The forms were snatched away before he could even cross the T's, "All right. You're all set. It's gonna be twenty-five hundred"

Twenty-five dollars? No fucking way it's that low...fuck, did he say Twenty-five HUNDRED? Ethan was beside himself, "Two grand??? For what!?"

"You read the forms Mr. Civil Litigator. You should know. 450 for the tow, 150 a day holding fee, 45 a day lot fee."

Ethan did the math in his head, checked his work, and recounted again, "That's only 24 hundred." As if 100 dollars was the make or break.

"Oh that's right..." the Lord cooly patronized, "Hundred dollars douchebag fee"

Okay, now I heard that. He's fucking with me. Has to be.

"Sure! the douchebag fee. How can I forget." Ethan added sarcastically

The Lord kept a straight face; chewing on something. They're always chewing, these types.

Okay, not a joke. "You're serious???" Ethan pleaded, "You can't do that!!"

"You signed the papers, boy." The Lord flipped to a page in the middle of the paper stack:

Article 7 Section 14
The proprietor can and will include a fee for "douche-bag" behavior, the definition of which is listed in Article 2.7.

Article 2 Section 7
From here on out, the term douche-bag will denote distasteful and unfavorable characters.

"You can't do that you fucking idiot!" Ethan exclaimed, putting an end to this surreal buffoonery.

"My lot", the Lord leaned in close, his alcoholic smell now potent, "my rules, nigger! You want your car, you got to play by them."

Ethan was clearly at a disadvantage. Regardless of his thoughts on this imbred and his establishment (the term used loosely), he knew that he had signed off on it, thus agreeing to be this hillbilly's bitch.

"Fine!! I need a moment though." Ethan ceded, biting his tongue.
 He felt the Lord's stare as he walked out of ear shot. He slid his iPhone from his back pocket and hit the home button

iMessage
MoTheR

Just what I need. Another person to make me feel badly for myself. 

Somehow her timing was always inopportune. Phone calls throughout the day that, from precedence, would occupy the space of an hour. He didn't have the time investment nor an adequate response for "oh, mr. hot-shot writer. no time for his mother." At this particular incidence, it was perfect; a comfortably affluent parental unit to tow him out of another ditch.

"Aww FUCK!" Ethan clapped his hands together in frustration. His financial pit reminded him that his four thousand dollar shopping spree was still in the car. This might as well happen.

He turned back around and sure enough the Lord was watching over his shoulder with a death glare; the same look Ethan always got walking into a Liquor store in Korea town. "YOU BUY!"

"Can I grab some of my belongings from the car?" Ethan asked

The Lord's shrugged, "What shopping bags?"

Ethan returned a bitter smile and a contemptuous thumbs up, "You're right. What shopping bags? Fuck was I thinking? My mistake." This day can't get any better.

Another text came almost immediately after:

Krystal: Where the fuck are you??? Chris is pissed!!!

FUCK

Ethan had forgotten that he was supposed to come back into work today.

Ethan: Shit. I'm coming right now


Some faggy dive in Venice

Ethan stumbled into the bar, kicking up peanut shells from the floor. Sweat beaded on his head from the heat, a rushed expedition by bus and foot, and the looming rage of yet another boss. His only comfort was knowing that he didn't technically need the job. He took up bar tending 'cuz bitches love bartenders, and he found most of his inspiration for his writing from his patrons, especially of the bitch variety. Times as they were, the necessity of this job grew more apparent which contributed to Ethan's anxiety in being late. As he shimmied and sidles in and out of the crowded bar, his trepidation increasing with the realization that it was extraordinarily busy that day and they were a bartender short. He felt like everyone was shaking their heads at him (staff and guest) for letting them down with his derelict untimeliness. He was doing a lot of that lately, letting people down.

"Matt!" A booming voice stopped him in his steps. Chris was of the bouncer sort; a fat and intimidating Samoan who seemed to command all the females attention by simply sitting with his arms crossed, offering single word answers and coy grins. He was an ugly son of a bitch too which made that feat even more incredible. Perks of the job, like i said. He had been a bouncer for the Deja Vu strip-club syndicate, eventually earning the ranks of manager, and somehow coming to run this overpriced pretentious shit hole. Obviously the worst thing Chris could do was yell at him (well actually, the worst thing Chris could do was fire him, especially now), but Ethan had seen Chris on numerous occasion break a table with a belligerent drunk guy. What's more menacing is that they--the belligerent drunk guys--always ended up paying for that broken table. Talk about carrying your cross to Golgatha. So, yeah, don't fuck with Chris...seriously.

Ethan clenched his face and prepared to plead his case, "Chris, man, I'm sorry man. I had to deal with this hill-billy cracker at the tow yard--"

Chris shook his head and held up a hand, "Shut your face. I don't give a fuck. Bar 4 NOW!" He tossed Ethan an apron. It was just a piece of cloth, but Ethan would've sworn it knocked his back a few paces. Did I mention Chris played tight end for SC before getting suspended for a helmet hit, putting one unlucky kid in a coma? I think the poor bastard is still in a coma.

That probably wasn't the end of the conversation, but Ethan convinced himself that it was in order to put it out of his mind. You can't tend bar on a bad mood. Nobody wants a bummer for a bartender. Fake it for her to make that paper.

He made his way to the back of house and to the other side of the bar that serviced an outside patio. Krystal was just finishing up pouring a line of blowjobs for a bachelorette party. She saw Ethan from the corner of her eye. Looking back at him, she made a gun with her hand and blew her brains out (out of view of the basic brides maids and their "woooing" of course) before laughing. Sure, she had to stay later because Ethan showed up late, but she was a super mellow stoner. Ethan couldn't recall a time he had ever seen her mad, ever.

"Oh my GOD!" she exasperated, walking toward Ethan and giving him a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek, "Kill me now! If I hear another thing related to a wedding, I'll set the bride on fire. I will! Don't think I will?"

Krystal took a swig of 151, pulled out a zippo and blew a ball of flame over the growingly ratchet wedding court's heads. They all screamed in shock then laughed and clapped after.

Retarded, she mouthed, again out of view. Ethan approached the bar top.

"You can close them out baby boy" Krystal said, counting out her tips from a pint glass.

"Nah Krys! Don't be stupid. They had to be hard to deal with and I was late. I already feel badly!" Ethan pleaded.

She pinched his cheeks, "Word on the street is that you need it."

Ethan rolled his eyes, "Fucking Darlene", he mumbled under his breath as she poured two shots of Jameson.

"...Annd this." She handed him one shot, clinked it with the other and shot it back in one motion. "Okay, I'm out! Your hell now Matthews." She wiped her bottom lip and referred back to the bridal shower, "Alright you dirty slut hookers. Peace BITCHEEESS!" she condescended with a smile faker than half their titties.
A clamoring of "Oh My God, like byyeeee", "I miss you already", "Love you Slut" followed as Krystal backed away from the bar with a Nixon inspired double deuce. Retarded, she mouthed to Ethan again right before disappearing into the back.


Ethan couldn't help but smile. Her jolliness was contagious. He loved how she made his week better already with attempted arson, a little cash gift, a shot, and good ol' fashion customer derision. But hey, that's what bartenders do, right?


Ethan began setting up his bar the way he liked: pulled two stacks of pint glasses from the refrigerator and set them on the rubber threshold that split bartender and bar attendee. He checked his garnishes (olives, check; limes, check; cherries, check...) impaling two of each with a miniature sword toothpick, ready to go. He grabbed a pint glass from the stack he pulled up, and dabbed at each beer tab to test levels. "Erick! I'm running low on Sculpin!" Ethan called out to the back of house.

A voice responded from somewhere in the back, "I just changed it, chief!" the bar-back responded. He sounded out of breath. Must be doing kegs right now. He let the sculpin tap run to dump the foam.

Turning back around, he was greeted by the last people he'd expect to see.

"Um. What the fuck?"

"Ethan, I'd hit you right now if we weren't in public. Is that any way to talk to your mother? Jude! You see how your son talks to me?" They plopped down on two Bar stools, his mother in a floral blouse and white capris, his father in a suit (that's all he ever wore whenever he stepped out in public. At home, it was boxers, slippers, and a wifebeater that emphasized his skinny-fat E.T.-like bod).

"Etan, respect yo mow-dah." Ethan's father said reflexively, eyes squinted and fixed on his iPhone screen. Ethan's mom waved off his lack of attention.

Ethan leaned over the bar-top and kissed his mother on the cheek, "I meant what are you guys doing in Los Angeles? It's a little random, don't you think?"

"We're meeting your uncle at Staple's center." she replied, clasping her hands together and grinning widely

"What? Lakers?" Ethan playfully stuck out his tongue and flipped off some regulars that he saw from across the room.

His mother clicked her tongue disapprovingly and tried to swat away the obscene gesture, "No silly. Blue-Man Group!" Her excitement was painted on her face.

"Oh yeah, of course. Staple's Center. Blue-man group. How did i mistake that?" He said robotically, emphasizing his sarcasm. His mother playfully swatted at him.

"I don't understand da blue! Why da blue? Do you need to be blue to heet drams?" Ethan's dad was the founding father of selective hearing, "Eet's too much. My eyes hurt just looking at dis veedeeo."

"I told you, Jude. It's their...PIZAZZ!" She gesticulated 'pizzazz' with jazz fingers.

"Olways wid de PIZAZZ", his father rolled his eyes.

"Enough you two or I'm gonna have to call the bouncer", Ethan toyed. He loved how his parents were such characters. They were like the Seinfelds, but interracial. "So you're seeing the Blue-balls group in downtown, yet you're somehow here in Venice..." He

"Well you didn't return my text so I got worried. I called Keith and he said you'd be here." His mother's diminutive confidence in Ethan's ability to handle himself was accurate. On usual circumstance, he would lambast her overbearing concern, but it was comforting to know he had that support system. As much as he claimed demons, he was statistically privileged. So goes the plight of suburban youth.

Ethan's parents lived in Irvine california. Though driving distance, there was a massive disconnect between Los angeles and Orange county. Orange county shaped their views and they abided by its strict code of ethics in exchange for personal safety and home-price values. Let's just say, down here, the people are less colorful. Ironically, his father was a Nigerian national who made his way to the top on software and computer repair, establishing himself before the cool kids ran the industry. Mother was a Sacramento native and also a salt-of-the-earth personality. She was a NICU R.N. who was never leaving California. She felt the comforts of the Golden State were enough. A journey south was as far as she went. Together, they assimilated into white-privelaged communities, following the zeitgeist and gentrifying themselves so as to not stick out (as much as an interracial couple in Newport could). These were Ethan's parents: timid, low-key, and frugal. Frugal, as in living on a 5ook combined income yet recycling cans on Wednesday at the local Stater Brothers parking lot.

i'M FuCKeD---eTHAN

Brand new "At the bottom"

Chapter V: Killa ToFu

Ethan crossed [insert street], slowly jogging as the red hand went from blinking to stagnant. He had yet to return any of Philip’s calls. In fact, he purposely blocked his number for the past two days.

 He was coming from lunch with Darlene so he was in the area.  He decided going to Phil’s office in person would pull the band-aid in a quick swoop.

He strolled up to the office casually. “Hey Skyl—“, he started instinctively before seeing the new secretary.  A clean cut Korean guy sat in her place. “Hermes” according to his gold name plaque on the desk.

“How may I help you?” he inquired with an effeminate voice.

Ethan leaned against the wrap-around desk and tapped his fingers on the counter. “Phil? He in?”

“Mr. Weinstein", Hermes austerely corrected, "is in a very important meeting. If you’ll please have a seat.” Hermes gestured to the seats behind Ethan, whom didn’t mind waiting if it meant avoiding the inevitable. “Your name sir?” Hermes asked, eyes averted to a computer screen.

“Ethan Campb—Matthews. Ethan Matthews.”

Hermes’ eyes widened and he looked back at Ethan, “Mr. Matthew’s! My sincerest apologies. I didn’t know; we weren’t expecting you”, he referred to the computer in blame, “but Mr. Feinstein specifically said to get a hold of you a.s.a.p. And you’re here!” he excitedly threw his hands up. “I’ll let Mr. Feinstein know immediately.”

He punched a button on the phone intercom, “Mr. Feinstein, Mr. Matthews  just arrived.” He smiled and nodded at Ethan.

“Send in the son of a bitch in five!” Ethan heard Phil’s distinctive voice on the other end. “Wait, did he hear that? Am I on speaker?”

Hermes cringed, waiting for the fireworks, “Um….yes?” He whispered.

“Good! Hey Ethan, FUCK YOU! You think you’re all that and a bag of potato chips? Fine! But when daddy calls, you better pickup. You would be nowhere without me and look how you treat me.” At this point, the phone was unnecessary as you could hear him from behind the closed door.  Heads popped up like prairie dogs from the cubicles in the adjacent common space. “Help yourself to some donuts and coffee!” Philip ended before the line went dead.

Hermes was covering his mouth in shock.  “Don’t worry”, Ethan reassured, “This was nothing. You should’ve seen him when I went off the grid on a backpacking trip. He hired a P.I. to find me. True story”, he gave the counter two gentle knocks before back pedaling towards the chairs, pointing back at Hermes assuredly.

Office of Philip Feinstein

Ethan slouched in the oxblood Corinthian leather chairs. The office was on the colder side; low 70s. The walls were lined with bookshelves containing an assortment of books from Ethan’s contemporaries. He would've be surprised if Phil  had even read half of them. He had a team for that. The books were simply novelty aesthetics for his office; first-edition collectibles to represent his legacy. Phil sat behind a stained redwood desk in a high-backed chair made of the same material as the one Ethan sat on. He was laughing and carrying on the conversation he was in before Ethan sat down. Ethan stared at a family picture facing outward on the desk: two daughters and a son; the eldest probably in her mid-30s and the younger two in their early to mid twenties.

“I’ll have my underwriter draw something up.” Phil concluded the phone call.

He redirected his attention to Ethan, “So, Mr. Hot-shot-writer! I read your manuscript.” He said, teetering the pages back and forth with his thumb and index finger.

“Where’s Skyler?” Ethan asked, ignoring the comment entirely, “Who’s that guy?”

“What? This guy?” Phil pointed in the general direction of the secretary desk outside, “He’s my son’s….” Phil thought carefully about his word choice, “partner or whatever. It was a favor.” He shook his head indignantly, “It’s like you have to buy your kid’s love these day, amiright?”  

“…So no more Skyler?” Ethan was slightly upset.

“No no. I have that guy come in for Skyler for a week of the month.” Phil dropped two Alka-Seltzer tabs in some water.

Ethan had an outlandish thought to why Phil would do this. I mean, he wouldn’t put it past him. But he hoped he was wrong.

“Why?” He decided to humor Phil.

“Well, you see, women are different than men. Every month they have this cycle, you see.” Ethan waved his hand, cutting Phil off. Exactly what he thought. He knew where he was going with that biology lesson.

“You’re telling me you don’t let her work when she’s on her period? Mr. Feinstein, that is extraordinarily offensive!” Ethan couldn’t believe that he had to make that clear.

“What? It’s P.T.O! Everyone wins! Besides, if you asked her if she wanted the P.T.O. or to stand for some feminist malarkey, I guarantee you, she’d take the check.”

Ethan hated to admit it, but Phil did have a point. He was just glad that Skyler was still hired.

“Anyway, business: This book of yours. What is it?” Phil didn’t waste any time. Ethan kinda hoped he would drop a hint for him to work with. No such luck.

Shit you tell me.

“A consequential multiverse involving Hitler’s son”, Ethan repeated the same description as when he dropped it off last week. That’s all he really did know about the prose.

“Smart guy, ay?” Philip was far from bemused, “Listen you prick! Buy a couple of weeks, a month even; I’m fine with that. Couple of advances on your bonus, no sweat.” He leaned in and folded his hands together on top of the script lying on the desk, “But you plagiarize Hilsenrath and arbitrarily throw in pieces from your old college work THAT I REJECTED BEFORE, then I have to fuck you in the streets!” Philip sipped on his seltzer water. Again, way to calm for what he was saying.   

The mention of Hilsenrath triggered Ethan’s transitive memory. He remembered pouring himself a triple of Crown Royal before he started writing. Realizing he knew very little about the Third Reich, he went for the only Holocaust narratives he owned: Night by Elie Wiesel and The Nazi that lived as a Jew by Edgar Hilsenrath. Is it wrong to quote half a book? I’ll cite it! He didn’t know what to say. He felt his depression and anxiety set in with the realization of another Ethan Campbell classic fuck up.

Phil pulled Ethan away from his internalized self-loathing, “Look, kid. I heard about your girlfriend and the accident. Talk about your case of the Mondays, amiright?” Ethan rolled his eyes and threw his head back in annoyance, but Phil continued anyway, “I know you’re not in the best state of mind. I’ve been there….sorta…not really. But I can imagine.  Anyway, being the gracious god that I am, I’ll give you 3 more months to get your shit straight.” Phil nodded heavily, giving Ethan a single option to work with, “I better have something on by desk October 1^st that gets me rock hard. Not October 2^nd; the FIRST… or you’re through.” He pushed the manuscript toward Ethan, sliding it off the desk and right into his lap.

“Yeah, I will...um, thank you for understanding.” Ethan got up to leave but Philip stopped him at the door.

“Nuh uh uh! Not so fast, 'Boy Meets World'." Phil wagged a finger

Ethan dreaded what was about to come next. He closed his eyes in a wince as he slowly turned back around to face Phil.

“The card, pretty boy.” Phil meant the company debit card with Ethan’s bonus and per diem, “You’ll get the keys to the castle back once you bring me something to get my rocks off to.”

Ethan pusillanimously walked back over to Phil’s desk, dragging his feet. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his new Gucci wallet and dug out his card. He stared at it for a moment.It was still immaculate and unweathered; the raised numbers on the front still retained their silver paint.  Without you, I’m literally broke. We had some good times, ol' friend. Phil promptly confiscated the plastic and in one motion, instantly executing it with office-sized scissors. Ethan vicariously felt the cut.

“Now go fetch daddy a story.”

Ethan stepped out of the office building for the second time in two weeks. His elation from the former was replaced now with despair. He had gone from riches to rags quicker than it takes a virgin to climax. I’m not even back to where I started. I’m in a worse boat.  

[Insert brand here]

Chapter IV: Jesus is totes Transgender

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The libertine code...--Ethan Matthews

Aiden "Knife Blood Nightmare"

Chapter III: Spilled Spaghetti-Os All Over the Sofa

I was on a strict diet of an entire package of bacon a day; bacon because it paired well with my Brother Thelonius Belgium. This is the kind of life I was living: Sybaritic...deprave...lazy. The mornings were the worst.  There’s nothing more depressing than having to wake up up with nothing to get up for. It begins to make you weary, even moreso than the end of the day. I just want to go back to bed. Can I trade my dreams for reality? Atrocious thoughts for a young man with fleeting ambition. Oh but dreaming does little in the real world asshole! It probably doesn't help that I'm constantly under the influence of something. Whether it’s smoking a cigarette to kill the edge and clear my mind, taking a bar to kill the paranoia, rolling to be social, yay cuz it’s bomb and brings me up, weed to help the comedown, blotter or mush to evaluate my life, and drinking to numb it all away. I rely on the holy trinity, weed, alcohol, and Xanax on a daily basis to even attempt sleep (on the occasions I did). I sleep sporadically throughout the day or I would simply go without it. Conversely, my nights were always sleepless, stricken in a mania. Unclear thoughts; a reckless outlook. I just need something to help me feel…think. I prefer to pass out than to have a disciplined sleep pattern. Falling asleep is too hard, and I am too lazy. By early morning, I’m a cesspool of regret, lingering to the ethers of the night. I let my medicated mind drift away. I reckon that's no way to live. But it's the only way I know how. I feel like I've fucked up too much; backlogged on too many promises, giving up any sign of redemption. Regardless, these are underwhelming compared to my many other druthers. Can you bless a man for having such indolent behavior? Netflix was my religion and Breaking Bad, my communion. I should meditate more. My mind doesn't belong here. I like to pretend I am a writer, though my prowess often goes undocumented. For creative genius, writers have to maintain a clear line of focus. "Letting go" and letting the muses take faculty is fair and good for painters and sculptors. But for an art like writing, critical thinking is inherent. O me miserum to comment on the human condition.

Ethan caught himself vacantly staring the red spot on the sofa. That's all I have left of this child. He didn't know how to "feel" about the whole situation. His lack of extreme emotional output worried him. What if I'm a sociopath? Or, he was still struggling to wrap himself around the idea that he had a potential child, ‘til the bastard committed suicide all over his couch, god bless. That was on Tuesday. It was Thursday. He hadn’t left his apartment since he arrived home from the hospital. He called off work and put his phone on “airplane mode”. He needed to get away; disappear from public scrutiny and start fresh. I’m just in shock is all. Poor little guy...or girl. Must've read my last novel. Ethan chuckled out loud at his self-deprecation. If a joke was ever too soon, this was the one, but Ethan couldn't help himself. Darkness was comedy.

He was sitting at the bar top which split the kitchen from the dining room. He had a large salad bowl filled halfway with purplish milk; assorted colored orbs bobbed at the surface. Ethan absently stared past the jovial rabbit on the front of the cereal box. He was delliberating whether or not to call Alexis. But what would he say? "Uh, sorry for our loss, or whatever." ERH! Wrong. "Let's try again...maybe?" ERH! Two strikes ass-clown! "What did you do to cause this?" ERHHHHHHH! Silly Ethan, babies are for grown people! He looked down to his Welsh Corgi, Rufio, sitting patiently below, waiting for an offering or a catastrophic spillage. He found Rufio at a kennel he worked at briefly in New Mexico during his travels through the western United States. Owners dropped him off but never came back. Ethan and Rufio instantly had a connection that only a boy and his dog can understand. Weeks passed, and when Ethan was getting ready to  depart for the next town, he asked if he could take the orphan pup. The rest is history. He called him Rufio, named after the successive leader of the Lost Boys in the movie Hook. He would never grow up.  

“You think I should call her?”

 Rufio cocked his head to right, as if to say, “Fuck do I know? I’m a dog. So is there any chance I’m getting some of what you’re having or am I wasting my time here?”

“You’re right boy!” Ethan rubbed Rufio behind the ears by his chubby neck rolls, “She does owe me an explanation. It was mine as much as hers.” Ethan’s mind was infested with questions that only she knew the answers to: How long has she known? Did she even know? Why didn't she tell me? Wait...was that even mine?

He shot his glance back at the marooning circular spot on his floral print sofa. He had been ruminating whether or not to get rid of the sofa altogether; he felt he had to. But it was an antique from (you guessed it) an ex girlfriend of Christmas past. He couldn't just throw it out; mostly, though, because he was on a very fixed income at the moment. I could reupholster it he reasoned. Nah! Even if it was covered up, and I would be the only one--well one of two...and a half (and the “half” took the secret to the grave. HAHAHA...sorry) who knows what's underneath, it would still bother me even out of sight. And I'm the main user of the couch. His cogitation was abruptly interrupted by a knock on the sliding glass door of his terrace. He jumped, spilling the bowl all over himself and on the floor. Rufio immediately assumed custodial services, vaccuming up the colorful clusters from the ground into his mouth. Ethan reached over the counter and grabbed a dish towel to mop up what he could from the counter and his wife-beater. He looked around the corner and saw a silhouette to the backdrop of city lights. He instantly dropped down to a knee, putting a finger to his lip to shoosh Rufio who wasn’t even barking to begin with. He was more interested in the sugary cereal. Some guard dog he is. 

"It's Alexis. May I please come in?"

Ethan crept toward the door, skewing his head to the side, so as to catch his phantom visitor in better lighting. Noting his uncertainty, she reaffirmed her identity.

"It's fucking me, dumbass! Look, you haveeee...” She pondered upon a Snapple fact that only she might know about Ethan, “a little birthmark that looks like Texas at the base of your cock."

Ethan strode to the door and flung it open. He was greeted by Alexis, shrugging and waving with a cute smile. They just stood there in silence for what seemed like eternity.

"Are you gonna let me in?" she asked, already sidling by Ethan.

"I have a front door you know", Ethan replied the only way he could.

"Well if I buzzed the front, I dunno if you'd pick up or even let me in, considering..." She looked at the spot on the sofa through her bangs from the corner of her eye.

"Oh that!? Pshhh that's nothing. You shoulda seen what Mitch did to that sofa when he got plastered at the Made in America festival. We came back here and he was all--" Alexis cut him off with raised hand.

"That's not even close to funny!" she said through grit teeth, fighting back tears. Her face began to shake and her breathing got heavy, "CAN’T YOU EVER BEING FUCKING SERIOUS??? I MEAN FOR ONCE!” She fanned herself with her hand as she tried to breathe through the tears. “I...I came here to try to be with you during this. I didn't want you to be alone. I DON'T WANT TO BE ALONE!" Her face was flush and her voice cracked. Her eyes were fountains. “You know what?” she shook her head, "FUCK YOU ETHAN CAMPBELL! Go burn in the ghetto of HELL!" She turned to walk out the door, but Ethan grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

He wanted so badly to counter with the fact that she disappeared without a word to him. Or how he had to hear from someone else that she had a miscarriage. But he was walking on egg shells. If he wanted any answers, he would have to play his cards wisely.

 "I was just kidding!!! Can you relax?? Can we talk like civilized--OUCHH!! Oh bite me?? That's how grown people fix problems right?" 

Alexis broke free, falling to the ground and knocking over a drawer. Rufio started barking. Ethan instinctively dove to her aid but was promptly stopped.

"NO!" she muttered, her crying breaths turning to angry breaths, "Don't. You. FUCKING! Touch me." Ethan recoiled as she stood herself back up. "You know why I never told you? Why I didn’t even want you to know? Why I didn’t want to see you in the hospital?" Yes! Yes! Yes! Ethan responded in his head. It was like she read his mind, "Because you can't be a father. I mean look at you; Look at this place. You're a fucking child. How can a child be a Dad?"

Ethan, the novelist, the wordsmith, was speechless. He stood there taken aback. The air was thinner than Karen Carpenter. Alexis’ eyes were averted, still drizzling tears. 

She obviously wants me to say something. "So......That--I mean It--I mean the bab--", he took a deep breath "It was mine right?" The most anxiety Ethan had ever felt was the moment those words left his lips.

Alexis sniffled and wiped her eyes. “That’s all you can say to me right now? After everything I just said, you're just trippin' on whether or not you’re responsible for this mess?" She put her hand to her hip and peevishly licked her lips, "What if it wasn’t? Huh? You’re in the clear? You dodged a bullet? Or if it was yours? Then your life is over. This,” she gestured to his general living space, “this will be all gone and you’ll finally have to care for someone other than your sad, spoiled self. Is that what you want to know, you Maury fuck boy?” Ethan couldn’t even make eye-contact. He felt ashamed and embarrassed. He could tell himself any lie he wanted to mollify his motives, but she was right, even if just a little bit. He couldn’t hide from that now. Her lips pursed indignantly as she slowly shook her head, "Yup. That's right. A man child. Exactly what I'm saying. Can't see anything but all the outs. Typical black stereotype." She turned and stepped out the door.

Ethan was too in shock and mixed emotion to take offense to that. This is it!  I'm never seeing this girl again AND she probably isn't going to tell me now.

Alexis turned around to face him. She had stopped crying and she wore a thin smile. She kissed her index finger, looked back at her brilliant writer endearingly, then immediately swapped for the middle finger and a scowl. Then she was gone. Just like that.

Ethan stared through the empty door. The sky was starting to turn a bright magenta, crested with a yellow horizon. Rufio stopped barking and started to whine.

Soon after, the lock to the front door clicked, followed by a long, extended squeak as the door glided open. A series of thuds from heavy luggage being dragged over the threshold broke the silence of the early morning. Ethan kept his eyes glued to the horizon. He knew it was just Keith, back from Vegas.

“DUUUDE! EDC KILLED!!!” Keith peeled his shirt off and threw himself on the sofa. “I was rolling on that bomb molly the whole time bro. Ay, how’s the whole, you know, thing? You talk to Alexis yet? AWWW DUDE! Who spilled Spaghetti-Os all over the sofa!” He shot up and looked over his shoulder at the back of his board shorts, examining for damage. “That’s not coming out…”

Ethan held his gaze, “You hungry?” he asked solemnly.

From behind him, “Hell Yeah man! Going into serious catabolic mode for sure! What are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling pho’cked”