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.
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