Good morning:

I'm working on the following short story. I hope you enjoy it.

Thanks,

Jess


Thursday in Tacoma

The Prisoner …
I haven't tasted freedom in nearly three years. This house on Chinook Avenue sags beneath the weight of a half-century of rain-soaked Tacoma winters and I can feel the place melting away around me as I sit, endlessly counting the bars separating me from liberty.

A legion of other victims have come and gone but my suffering continues; she must take special delight in my silent agony. My voice has long-since failed me, destroyed by countless hours of desperate shrieking finally faded to softer cries pleading for release, all greeted by her comma-grin, a lopsided sneer revealing nicotine-stained uppers.

As always, Thursday night marks his arrival. Although she conceals my cell, I sometimes catch a glimpse of his entrance, his eyes flashing, molting away the layers of fatigue, the too many miles driven on an endless highway, the too many dreams buried beneath a numbing diesel-roar.

Hours pass and I hear his cries, not hers. Later he flashes past my narrow portal, toward the front door, always leaving more quickly, with more certainty than he exhibited when he arrived. She is cold; she never joins him at the door in fond farewell. Could it be she cares more for me than this Thursday-night visitor? God, what agony! Sometimes I think I might love my captor … but most times I simply hate myself.

*****
Roy …
This rainy place is the last leg. It's always the same for me; Houston to Fresno with Chiquitas, Fresno to Tacoma with oranges, Tacoma to Philly with apples. I start all over in Philly; my Houston-outbound is margarine in little plastic tubs headed for the Kroger distribution center. I have to doctor my logbook a little, but I make money on this run and spend most Sundays at home. And then there's Tacoma.

She's not like the others. She never sees anyone else on Thursday night, setting this special time aside for us to savor. Though she knows we have something special, she never acknowledges it. I suppose she's been hurt too many times before.

"I'll always love you, Ada," I whisper to her as her head rests on my shoulder. The window air conditioner in her bedroom is summoning the devil with some sort of pulsing, hissing-roar that drowns out my pledge of undying affection. I think she hasn't heard me and decide the moment has passed when she suddenly looms above me.

"You don't love me," she says, her voice flat. Ada's face is close to mine. I can smell her last cigarette, stale, desperate. Her silhouette is strange, zebra-striped, slashed alternately white and black by the street light streaming through the open window blinds behind me.

"I ... could love you, if you'd let me," I say.

"Bullshit," she whispers. I watch as her expression slowly changes, framed in a narrow band of street light painted across thin lips. Her dispassionate smile returns, a show of teeth heralding cynicism. "But I know what you DO love," she says, sliding silently beneath the sheets.

I'm always sad when I leave Tacoma but the regret fades as I get closer to Philly. After sixteen-years and two kids, I suppose my wife knows I'm no damn good. Sometimes I think I might really love Ada … but most times I simply hate myself.

*****
Ada …
I suppose I should get rid of that damn bird. He used to make so much noise I had to cover his cage every time I had company. Then he just stopped singing, or screeching, or whatever it is that birds do. Anyway, I still cover his cage when I have a visitor. I know it seems crazy but somehow I feel he's watching me, judging me.

Thanks to Roy from Philly, Thursdays are a breeze. He drops a trailer-load of oranges at the pulp plant and usually arrives at my place before dark. People around here have gotten used to his rig parked on the street. The kids leave it alone because Roy's a big guy and the truck alarm always brings him running with that heavy, black flashlight he carries in his overnight bag.

Roy's big but he's not really tough. His gut is wobbly and soft from too much TBW; that's what he calls it anyway, time-behind-windshield. Don't get me wrong. Roy is a Godsend. Every day but Thursday I have to work the Great Western truck stop or the corner at Fleischer and 27th just to make enough to buy a rock. These days a smoke is all I have, except for Roy ... and that damn bird.

Each time he visits, Roy tells me he loves me. I know that's bullshit but I suppose I like hearing it. Sometimes when I'm alone, I think I might love Roy, too … but most times I simply hate myself.

Jess Butcher © Copyright 2013