image from Pixabay

This story is part of a noir anthology I am putting together on Wattpad. You all here on Steemit are getting it a day in advance. Check out more noir stories in every flavor of genre by some of the best authors on Wattpad here, in Take Away the Saints.

The soundtrack to the first chapter, Dirty Laundry, is Paradise Circus by Massive Attack.

Chapter 1: Dirty Laundry

The power is out in the building again. The lights shut off first, then a split second later, the microwave stops heating my shitty freeze dried oatmeal. I can hear the kids next door crying because they can’t watch an animated sponge flip hamburgers anymore. Lisa waddles in from the bedroom and yells my name.

“Carl! Power’s out!”

“I’m right here, woman. And what, exactly, do you want me to do about it? I’m not the power company.”

“Call the super!”

“You think nobody else done thought of that? Besides, all he’s gonna do is call the power company.”

“Y’know, it wouldn’t hurt you to take a little initiative.”

“Yeah, alright,” I concede. No reason to start fighting too early. I’m more of an afternoon pugilist. At least I made a pot of coffee before the electricity blew. I pour myself a second cup and pick up the phone. The super’s number is attached to the fridge with a magnet. I punch it in and let the line ring.

“Y’ello.”

“Hey Sully. Power’s out.”

“Yep, and you’re the lucky tenth caller. Show him what he’s won, Barbara!”

“No need to be a smartass. The old lady’s up in arms about it. Probably hormones.”

“How far along is she?”

“Three months. Feels like forever.”

“Just wait ‘til it’s eighteen years before you can kick the little bastard out.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Sully.”

“Anytime partner. And hey, congratulations.”

“Hmmmh.”

“You know it’s not the breakers, right? Power company has to take care of it. Rolling blackouts or something.”

“I told her as much.”

“Tell me you didn’t use logic with a pregnant woman.”

“Yeah, my mistake. I’ll let you get back to it; talk at you later Sully.”

The bottom of the cup is filled with dregs, but I turn it up anyway. Good thing my taste buds were already burned out. I dig around in my pocket and take out an almost empty pack of smokes. There are only two left. I light up and let the tobacco and tar seep into my lungs. That first one of the day, it gives you a little head rush around the third or fourth drag. Then you spend the rest of the day chasing that. Anything that stresses you, have a cigarette. Any job well done, have a cigarette. Eat a satisfying meal, have a cigarette. Sex? You bet your ass that’s a cigarette. Doesn’t matter if it was bad or good, the cigarette will make it that much better.

Not that there was any sex or good meals going on lately. Having a baby is the ultimate pass for any work that needs to be done. Lisa hasn’t lifted a finger since that piss strip turned blue. The honey-do list gets longer every day, and I don’t even get the courtesy of a “honey” for it all. Feels more like a bitch-fetch list. And this bitch is getting tired of fetching.

I stare into the trash can at the unused condom I found last night. I pulled it out of the nightstand drawer after Lisa fell asleep last night and filled it with water. No need to be silent, she sleeps like the dead these days. Sure enough, the son of a bitch sprung a leak. I just kinda stared into the mirror until I couldn’t stand the sight of my own face, then I crawled back into bed. Not much I could do about it; there’s no un-ringing that bell short of an 'accident' down the tenement stairs. I know that’s pretty fucked up, but all I can imagine now is some snot-nosed brat bawling his eyes out over a faggot-ass cartoon sponge.

I walk back to the bedroom where Lisa has hibernated again. She’s got her feet propped up on my pillows, reading some trash romance novel. I wonder if she’s already diddled herself instead of inviting me back for a boudoir session. She still looks good; it’s not like I’d turn her down as long as she kept her trap shut. But I’m not some dreamboat twenty-something billionaire S&M dom. I have given serious consideration to tying her up, though.

“Hey, I’ve gotta go to the store for some smokes.”

“Pick me up a pack of lights. And bring back some breakfast.”

“You know you’re pregnant right?”

“I said lights, didn’t I?”

“Fuck’s sake.”

“Well are you gonna quit with me?”

“Great. Maybe it’ll be retarded and we can get some kind of disability check or something.”

“It’s your kid. It’s almost a guarantee.”

Goddamn, I didn’t have a comeback for that one. I shrug it off and start looking for my jacket. There’s nothing of mine in the closet except for a couple pairs of jeans and a shirt that doesn’t even fit right anymore. Fucking sympathy weight gains. I got a head start on her for that one. I turn and begin fumbling through a pile of dirty clothes at the foot of the bed. It’s gotten so big it reaches the height of the box spring. Most of the shit is hers. Here I am turning underwear inside out, and she manages to change wardrobe three times a day when she doesn’t even go anywhere.

“Have you seen my jacket?”

“Keep digging, it’s somewhere in there. When’s the last time you did laundry?”

“Oh I’m sorry, I forgot your legs were broke.”

“Fuck you, Carl, I’m pregnant!”

“No, you’re lazy, there’s a difference. It’s not like you’re a land whale… yet.”

“Call me fat again and I’ll cut your dick off in the middle of the night.”

“Wasn’t like you were using it anyway.”

“Oh yeah, I guess I just knocked myself up then?”

My mind goes back to that sabotaged condom sitting in the middle of the garbage can. Every part of me wants to fish it out and confront her. Scream at her, call her a liar and a bitch. Maybe even give her a cheap shot to the uterus. Instead I just stand there blinking at her. Looking like some urban Lenny, starring in Of Mice and Mad Cunts. She’s staring back at me, and if looks could kill, well, let’s just say I believe the dick thing a little more than I’d like to admit.

My fingers finally find the faux-leather jacket I’ve been searching for. They brush against a cum-crusted sock I stealth-jerked into a couple nights ago. I hurriedly squish it back into the laundry pile. I have no idea whether Lisa would be upset about me masturbating to porn instead of her. Nocturnal spank sessions on the toilet with a three-and-a-half inch phone screen held awkwardly to my face, as I try to ejaculate before my fucking legs fall asleep. Hell, I’m upset on her behalf. It’s pathetic. At least the ass pimples and nipple scars are harder to make out on the tiny display. I thread my arms through the jacket sleeves and turn to walk out of the bedroom.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me for my order?” she asks my backside.

“What?”

“I asked you to pick up breakfast since you’re going out. I swear, it’s like you don’t even fucking listen.”

“Jesus, you’re gonna turn a trip for smokes into a whole thing, aren’t you?”

“It’s just breakfast. Why do you have to be this way?” 

I can already see the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. I can remember a time when I would’ve done anything to make her stop crying. Rushing in like a knight to save the day, that’s how I envisioned myself. These days, all they elicit is a sigh and an eye roll at best. I probably conditioned her to be like this. You either shock the mouse, or give it a treat, and all I had done for the last five years is give her treats for crying. Why should I expect her to act any other way? So without turning around, I give her an eye roll and then I give in.

“No. It’s fine. What do you want?”

Just like that, the tears are gone. “Sausage English muffin, double sausage, no egg, hot sauce, mild. Oooh, and hashbrowns, covered not smothered. And coffee, three sugars and an Irish cream stir-in.”

I swear, all these special orders. I feel like I need to write this shit down. Hold on, lemme put on my Alice nametag and beehive hairdo. And I get to be the one staring some greasy teenager in the face, ordering like an asshole while they’re dreaming about being anywhere else. The weekend kegger, or the car they’re saving up for, or pussy. Whatever teenagers daydream about these days. It’s probably still pussy. I get the order wrong half the fucking time, too. Then I get to come home and be the asshole all over again.

“Oh, and a bacon English muffin for the baby.” She draws out the last word, bay-beee, all sing-song, like it’s cute being a pain in the ass. “No egg!”

“Got it.”

“And you have to get it before they stop serving breakfast at noon, so you have to make it there in less than an hour. Maybe you should stop there first.”

“Look, the tobacco store is on the way. Plus, if I get breakfast first, it’ll be cold before I get home. I’ll make it, okay?”

“Alright, but I’ll be pissed if you don’t get there on time. I’m craving breakfast.”

“I’ll just go to Ray’s if I miss it. They have breakfast twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t want Ray’s,” she whines. If there was a noise that could annoy nails on a chalkboard, it would be my wife’s whine. “They have biscuits, not English muffins.”

“I’m going, I’m going!” I yell as I shut the door behind me. It slams even though I didn’t mean it to, punctuating my last sentence more harshly than I intended. 

Used to be, I couldn’t leave without a goodbye kiss. Even for a trip to the corner store. Now I’m happy to leave without an hour-long grilling. Where am I going? How long am I gonna be? Cue the bitch-fetch list. Like I’m gonna end up on a double-O spy adventure, dodging bullets and fucking foreign sluts after I slap them around for a bit. How much trouble could a guy possibly get into on a cigarette run?