At Least They're Committed

Work out, quick shower, into the blackened room with Jim in a glass beside me and old AC/DC on iTunes. I sweep my blonde, damp hair away from my face — yeah, you wish — sit cross-legged on the bed and reach for the reading lamp to my left. A match strikes in front of me and my jaw clenches, my eyes roll but my head does not move.

No longer on the bed, I’m on a padded bench with a thick, maple-wood office desk between me and him and the calaveras I made at Halloween sitting as judge and jury next to the lamp. There’s someone on my right, I know who it is, but he stands back, in the shadows as the man before me lights a cigarette, the glow showing rich, black skin, large white eyes, and, as he lifts the Camel to his lips, pearly white teeth.

He pushes a clay bowl toward me, it’s ancient but not so old. Something one could find in a cheesy antique store and push off as a Native American treasure. It does not matter. We’re not much into that.

He blows smoke to his right, to avoid my face. I’d chide him for smoking, but he doesn’t have any lungs, so its trivial.

“You’ve always watched them until they walked,” he says, softly. “Not this time.”

“No,” I say and look toward the calaveras to my left, Freda and Beau. They nod, as if encouraging me to go on, but I don’t feel like it.

“And what did you see?” the black man’s face is kind, wise and without judgement.

I shrug, quelling the urge to reach forward and coolly take the cigarette from between his fingers and suck down a drag. But I do have lungs and the coughing jag that would ensue would be wildly unbecoming.

“Potential,” I say, a clump of hair falling in front on my eyes, the man in the corner is breathing, hard, but stays quiet.

“And your role?” he’s blunt.

“Little to no effect,” I say.

“Isn’t it affect?”

“Whatever, I can never get my head around that one,” I ponder. Can you really tell the difference by saying the word?

“He’s not worth our time?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m saying he’s not worth mine. He’s common, but I’m no man’s or woman’s judge,” I say. “He’s not worth my time.”

His eyes fall to the bowl before me. I’ve not reached in there before. I’m ready to this time, but then the song changes from “Big Balls.”

“Can’t wash my hands,” I mutter. “Fucking ‘Highway to Hell’ is playing.” He is motionless, smirks, then nods. The man in the corner sighs audibly and chuckles and the calaveras shake their heads and would roll their eyes if they had any.

“Bad timing,” the man across from me says.

“I know. It’s done really, come to me tomorrow, I’ll be listening to A7.”

He laughs, the man in the corner laughs and the calaveras’ skinless jaws drop open in a smile.

“I’m done, all but the wailing of lost souls in the washing bowl,” I say, reaching to flip on the lamp, they all disappear, save for the rigid, lifeless skeletons and the man in the corner. “Is it 4:58 yet? That’s when you come in; that’s when it happens.”

Fading, he says, “I know.”