Still working on my sequel to my soon to be self-published novel Apophenia. It's hard to find the time and motivation to write, but I enjoy it. Check out chapter one here.
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Two
I am awoken by the screams of my children.
“Daddy, I wanna get up!” shouts Halfthor.
“Get the hell up then,” mutters Arnold, his head buried beneath
his pillow.
“Daddy, get me up!”
“Get yourself up!”
“I wanna get up!”
“Daddy, can I get up and watch TV?” asks Arne.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, pulling myself out of bed.
Arnie stumbles before me in dark, moving like the undead, his mopish
head bobbing with every step as he slowly meanders downstairs. I go
into the boys’ room and try to pick up Halfthor, but he smacks my
outstretched arms away.
“No, I want daddy,” he says.
“Every time you say that, you damage a piece of my soul,” I tell
him.
I leave him for Arnold and go downstairs where Arne is lying on the
couch, legs askew, rapidly flipping through streaming services in a
mad rush to find something to watch.
“You’re wasting your ten minutes,” I tell him.
He’s six years old and doesn’t hear a word I say.
I do my own drunken stumble into the kitchen, heading for the
espresso machine, a vanity purchase that I do not regret, and make
myself a cup of coffee. I prefer coffee to alcohol, and as a former
binge drinker, that’s saying something. I preemptively pour
Halfthor a bowl of cereal, only to have him reject it, as he rejects
everything that I do for him.
“No, I don’t want that cereal!” he says, shouting in his
oddly-resonant voice for a three-year old boy.
“Halfthor, you don’t talk to me like that,” I explain, barely
hanging on to the last vestiges of my sanity.
“I want Cheerios. And Honey Bunches of Oats. And biscuits.”
“Please?” I ask.
“Please,” he says, faintly.
I go to get him some milk, but as I’m opening the refrigerator, he
shouts me down.
“No, I don’t want any milk!”
“Stop screaming, Halfthor,” I say, raising my voice to a level
just below yelling.
“I don’t wanna!” he yells.
“You’re stressing me out. When people ask you why your mother’s
hair is falling out, admit that it’s your fault.”
“No!” says Halfthor, already heading toward the dining room, his
little blonde head a miniature replica of Arnold’s.
“Fuck my life,” I say, hopefully quiet enough that he doesn’t
hear.
There’s a finite amount of time we have, a good thirty minutes or
so, to get ready for school. Halfthor munches cereal, Arne watches
TV, and I sit on the computer, browsing the news and doom-scrolling.
We have brief amount of freedom, and then the rigid routines of daily
life existence must be enforced.
“Alright, it’s time,” I say.
“I want more cereal!” screams Halfthor.
“Uhhhh,” moans Arne.
“Now boys, we have to go!”
I end up giving Halfthor more cereal, while forcing Arne to go
upstairs and dress himself. I know that by the time I get up there
with his brother, Arne will have, at best, gotten his pants off. He’s
a smart kid, but he has the attention span of a golden retriever, and
any command must be repeated three times.
Arnold is downstairs in the basement, getting ready for work. He has
about an hour to lift weights and get pumped before filming his
latest video. I used to have a lot of resentment toward him for
pushing the kids on me in the morning, but his channel makes more
money than my endeavors at the moment, so I let him have his workout
time.
When I finally hustle Halfthor upstairs, Arne has exceed my
expectations and is fully-dressed, although his shirt is on backwards
and his pants are in desperate need of a belt, his ass being almost
non-existent, a genetic gift, I suppose, from his father, who
apparently had no ass to speak of before dedicating himself to the
weights. I pick out an outfit for Halfthor, who rejects it with his
usual rudeness.
“I don’t wanna wear that shirt! I want my rocket shirt!” he
says, his little brow furrowed.
Is it possible for a three-year old to develop worry lines on his
forehead? I guess we’ll find out.
“Your rocket shirt is dirty, buddy. You can’t wear it to school.
How about this bear shirt?”
“No!” he says, before rifling through his drawer like a rabid
raccoon.
“Mommy spends a lot of time folding…” I begin.
“This one,” he says, having pulled out about half of the
contents of the drawer.
“I don’t want to go to school,” says Arne, suddenly.
“You have to go to school, honey. It’s required by law,” I
tell him.
“I want to invent a time machine so I can go back to being four
and go to preschool,” says Arne.
“But you’re six. There’s so much more you can do,” I tell
him.
He doesn’t reply and stares at the floor. I don’t know what sort
of parental advice I can give him. I didn’t like school much
either, although I don’t think I had a negative opinion of school
until I was in high school.
We get to the point where they are clad and sitting on the steps,
waiting for their shoes. Arne takes eons to put his socks on, pulling
one sock over a foot in an absentminded way, as though his
consciousness has wandered to linger in the ether.
“I want my red shoes,” says Halfthor as I try to put on his
boots.
“No, your red shoes are too small,” I say, regretting my words
instantly.
“I want my red shoes!”
“They don’t fit on your feet!”
“I want my red shoes! I want them now!”
I see one of his red shoes lying on the ground close to the shoe
basket. Arne walks over there and picks up the red shoe, and my heart
takes a dive like someone has just kicked me out of the emergency
exit of an airplane midair.
“What are you doing with that, Arne?” I ask.
“He wants his red shoes,” says Arne, giving me a confused look.
…
We drive down a winding road through lingering fog, pockets of mist
hovering around the low, wooded hills. I’ve made this drive so many
times that I don’t appreciate it. In the weak twilight, the forest
looks enchanted, like something out of a fantasy novel. However, I
can’t recall any stories about a harried elf transporting two
half-orc barbarians to school.
We get in line, and I dump the children off with goodbyes and
well-wishes, and it isn’t until I’m halfway home that I remember
the one-hundred thousand dollars in cash I stole from the park.
“It’s got to be blood money,” I say to myself.
Is someone going to get wacked because of my deed? Is there someone
looking for me?
I park in the driveway and stare at my house for a minute, not ready
to go inside. It a one-hundred and fifty year old brick Greek Revival
that stretches back and back, the dining room and kitchen being
additions added nearly a century ago. We’ve had it painted and two
of the front windows restored, but it still needs work and the money
and time never seem to be there. Arnold isn’t inside; he’s likely
filming a video somewhere, maybe at that orchard. I climb the first
staircase and then the second, and enter the attic, where I’ve
setup my studio. Like my husband, I’m an internet whore. He sells
his personality, physique, and shoddy merch, while I sell pictures of
my feet and risque photos to perverts. It’s not particularly
lucrative, but it’s an easy job, one that I haven’t had to
supplement yet. The problem is, of course, my children, as well as
the long-term stability of being involved in pornography. I dread the
day that some dad recognizes me at a kids’ soccer game, and in a
small town, reputation is everything. Plus, at thirty-seven years of
age, I feel as though my physical prime is slipping. I guess the good
thing is that I’ve taken excellent care of my feet.
I upload a couple pics and block off some time for a PPV with a few
customers, then turn off the computer and sit in my moldy old chair
for a bit. There’s the box, beckoning, but I hold off opening it
again for a minute to contemplate its existence and what I should do.
Question one: should I tell my husband?
Look, I love Arnold. He possesses the physique of a Greek god, he’s
funny, he’s knows how to have a good time, and he’s a great dad.
He’s not, however, the kind of person you get involved in a scheme
that requires secrecy as well smarts. Not that he’s dumb; Arnold is
just a blunt person, one that gravitates toward a simplistic solution
to most problems, usually utilizing brute force. He’s not subtle,
my Arnold. He lacks discretion.
Question two: should I keep the money?
I could put the box back on the park bench, but that would risk
someone seeing that I took it. I could hand it over to the cops, but
that also seems like a foolish thing to do. I don’t exactly trust
the police around here, this being a small town, and who’s to say
they’re not involved in whatever criminality is going on? I took
the money, therefore I am stuck with the money.
Question three: how do I launder/spend the money?
What could we use around here? The house needs fixing, especially
the upstairs porch, which was a hillbilly addition that’s slowly
rotting away from water damage. My car is ten years old, although it
runs fine. The kids could use a college fund. I could stop showing my
feet to strangers on the internet. One-hundred thousand dollars is a
lot of money, but it’s not quit-your-job money. Perhaps there’s a
way to turn it into the mythical passive income.
I need to talk to someone level-headed, someone I can trust. I need
to talk to Dave.
Dave is Arnold’s twin brother. He also used to be a bodybuilder,
but he more or less doesn’t lift anymore. Whereas Arnold is focused
on using his image to make money, Dave lives in a hovel just down the
street from us. He works when he needs cash and quits his job when he
doesn’t. I often see him wandering around our small town, ragged
shoes flopping on the pavement, his blonde surfer-do becoming hoary
and disheveled with the passing years. I kind of view Dave as a guru
figure, a cryptoid from a past life. He is useful for dispensing
advice or bouncing around ideas.
I leave the house and walk a block down the street to Dave’s
humble abode. It’s a small green triangular house with rotting
siding and a gutter system that has long ago ceased functioning as it
was designed. The little side yard is fenced in, its contents wild,
tangled, and slowly consuming a chair. I step up onto the porch and
give the door a hardy rat-a-tat-tat. It opens and Dave is there, as
though he were waiting for my arrival, his broad frame clad in what
looks to be a hair shirt.
“Hey Dave. Want to take a walk?”
“Sure,” he says.
We walk around the Catholic church, passing a mix of houses in
varying states of disrepair. Some are gorgeous and restored, while
others are slowly vomiting out their guts, their porches full of old
furniture, lopsided boxes, stacks of paper, sacks of sidewalk salt.
We pass a mural of Jesus embracing children of all races, and I’m
surprised that Christ actually looks Jewish rather than white. The
Catholic school had to close last year because of decreased
enrollment. My opinion regarding private religious schools is that
they shouldn’t exist, but I do miss the noise of the children
coming from the park across the street from my house.
As we take a right, we see the upscale restaurant Fourth and Walnut,
located in a red brick building with an expansive courtyard. Well-off
boomers dine inside, where they are served by an exported staff from
Cincinnati. I love the place, actually, but it wears the community
like an heiress wears a fur coat. I glance at Dave, clad in his hair
shirt and holey jeans, and wonder if he’s ever dined there.
“You frequent this joint?” I ask, nodding toward Fourth and
Walnut.
“The crab and corn chowder is good,” says Dave, “but I can’t
afford any of the aged beef.”
“It takes like mushrooms anyway,” I reply. “Or so I hear.”
“What bothers you, Lenore,” he asks, like a priest awaiting
confession.
“What are you doing, currently, for work?” I ask.
“Nothing. The IGA went out of business.”
“Are you on one of your sabbaticals? A holy retreat?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
Every few years, Dave saves up enough money that he just stops
working. He quits his job and does whatever he wants until his
savings run out. I’m sure being free, albeit temporarily, from the
grind of capitalism is incredibly liberating, at least for a while.
Dave is a A-grade saver; he’s not much of a consumer, purchasing
only what he needs and avoiding any large expenditures. Then again,
his house is falling apart, and he doesn’t seem to accomplish
anything during these lengthy periods of work-free living. Still, he
has control, and his ability to op-out of the system instead of
letting it control him is admirable. At least, I think it is.
“Well Dave, if you were to come into possession of one-hundred
thousand dollars, what would you do?”
He stares at me for a second, his grizzled visage handsome, as
though there is hard-earned wisdom behind his blue eyes. I know of
Dave’s past as well as I do Arnold’s; years of bodybuilding,
drug-dealing, and wild, degenerate living. Arnold sold out—he had
to, he has a family—but Dave is still living the dream to some
extent, although what that dream is and how it will end is anyone’s
guess.
“Lenore, I don’t want to buy any of your crypto-currency,”
says Dave.
“What? I’m not trying to sell you anything,” I say.
“I’m fairly certain that an NFT of your feet will not be worth
anything in the future,” says Dave, a faint smile on his face.
I blush crimson. It’s not like what I do for work is exactly a
secret but for some reason I didn’t expect Dave to know.
“Come on, this isn’t a scam I’m trying to ring you into. Give
me some credit. I’ve never done that in the past. I’m asking
hypothetically. Like, if you found one-hundred thousand dollars on a
park bench, what would you do with it?”
“What would I do with it? Or what would I do with it if I were
you?”
“Ummm… answer both,” I say.
“I’d continue doing what I’m doing… but I might open a gym,
one with a rock-climbing wall in it. I’d keep it affordable,
there’d be no subscription model. You’d come in, pay a flat fee,
and work out. There’s nothing like that around here.”
“Alright.”
“If I were you, Lenore, I would stop showing my feet on the
internet and do whatever it is that you wish to be doing.”
“But that’s the rub; I’m not sure what it is that I want to
do. At thirty-seven years of age, that’s the god-honest truth.”
“Many of us drift along randomly, like leaves blowing in the wind,
while others hone themselves for a specific purpose, narrowing their
lives to the point where there is nothing else. What has more
meaning? Can any of it having any more meaning than what you make of
it? I don’t know. I’m not a sage, I’m just a former bodybuilder
on a quest for enlightenment. I know that sounds pretentious, but I’m
not a very pretentious person, right, Lenore? Perhaps you need to
join me and search for your meaning.”
“Dave, I’m not a tech-bro with unlimited income or a hippie like
yourself. I don’t know if I have that freedom.”
“If you can’t find that freedom, then that dissatisfaction you
feel will never disappear,” he states.
“I’m kind of used to it at this point.”
“We can get used to almost anything, can’t we?” asks Dave.
We stop at where the old IGA used to be. Through the windows, there
is nothing, just lighted space. I glance at Dave and he’s staring
through the windows like he’s trying to conjure up a specter of the
past, some poor ghost to serve him donuts or other items of
convenience. I tried to stay away from the place when it was open.
The local crowd was mostly concerned with purchasing cigarettes,
low-quality meats, and junk food, and the best cashier had a mullet
that resembled a raccoon pelt.
“The community certainly lost something,” I say, like a
funeral-goer trying expected to fill the uncomfortable silence.
“The poor people did,” says Dave. “The invisible ones, the
ones you don’t wish to see.”
“May they all rest in peace,” I say, giving my voice a gravelly
air like the Undertaker’s.
Dave turns away abruptly and walks toward his house. I realize that
I haven’t really obtained much from him other than a generic shard
of advice. Certainly he had wisdom a bit more concrete if I shared
just a little more info.
“Dave, I found a cashbox with one-hundred thousand dollars in it
at the park and I don’t know what to do with it. Don’t tell
anybody. Please.”
Dave stops, but doesn’t turn around. I wonder what sort of gears
are turning in his machine head.
“Go to the orchard,” he says.
“What?”
“The orchard. The one where Arnold filmed his video.”
“Why?”
“It seems like a good place for you,” he says.
I watch as he hops onto his front porch and enters his house.
“Thanks for nothing, you guru-freak,” I say.
…
I clean the house while no one is home. I vacuum up all the dog hair
my ancient mutts have shed; I dust surfaces and scrub around the
toilets where Arnie has tinkled, his aim compromised by his age as
well as the general male disregard for pissing in the potty. All the
tiny bits of dried up Play-Doh are removed from the dining room
table. Socks are placed in the laundry basket, and the washing
machine works overtime. Strangely, I find it relaxing, this domestic
routine. As the only female in the house, I somewhat resent the fact
that I am the only one concerned with keeping it livable and neat,
yet there is a satisfaction in organizing a disordered mess. Chaos is
the normal state of the universe, and as the house-cleaner superior,
I am an agent of order. I have power in this way, and being able to
express my power, however ridiculous, is something I cannot pass up.
The day proceeds, adhering to its normal schedule, and I can’t
help but feel as though my life is ticking away, with only vague
memories as proof that I’ve done anything with the time I’ve been
granted. This is a disconcerting side-effect of growing older; it’s
a feeling I have experienced more and more. Surely the increasing
knowledge of one’s approaching demise prompts the mythical mid-life
crisis. Am I about to have one? Thirty-seven isn’t middle-aged,
right? It’s getting up there, but I still have time. This is what I
tell myself to vanquish the doubts that tug on my heart strings,
sending pangs of panic reverberating through my stomach. You have to
lie to yourself constantly to keep up morale, or you just don’t
think about it, which is a strategy I’ve never been able to
utilize, being a habitual over-thinker, an analyzer of everything.
I’m going to have to figure out what to do, and nobody is going to
help me.
