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A Slice of Middle America

posted 7/24/2009 5:31:06 AM |
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tagged: sex, anger

Glen said nothing. He grabbed the small clock radio from the counter, ripped the plug out of the wall, and threw the device with all his might into the kitchen window. A loud crash and bits of flying plastic and glass. The force was not sufficient to completely penetrate the hapless fenestration, but did nonetheless impale the radio half-in, half-out..

Silence. A large and dangerous shard dangled from the pane by what seemed a glass thread.

Cindy had long since hurried off the premises, in her haste grabbing their 2-month-old son Jason from his bassinet.

Six months of hell had finally come to a head. The mortgage was not only due, it was overdue. Earlier that day, the letter carrier came to the door, knocked, and handed Cindy a small packet - for which she was asked to sign - marked "Urgent!". Inside was a curt form marked NOTICE OF DEFAULT AND INTENT TO ACCELERATE.

Glen had been out of work for the last eight months. The construction business had slowed to a glacial pace, and his trade - drywalling - was almost dead. The few construction projects ongoing were either government contracts or halted in the early stages due to economic uncertainty on the part of the investors.

He had been spending some quality time with Messrs Bud Weiser and Jack Daniels of late - including this particular evening. He liked the release - albeit temporary - from the gloomy reality staring them in the face. When the film of inebriation wore off he would discover he had done his part to help, at least, the window and electroncis industries - at least if his lot ever improved.

As for Cindy, she dealt with the stress of the situation differently, through food. She had put on 35 lbs over the past year, largely due to the pregnancy, eliciting some rather cruel statements from Glen for which she had yet to forgive him - things of that nature that is not ever to be spoken to a woman, and would probably leave a permanent scar on their relationship. The weight had not dropped at all even after Jason was delivered by C-Section, and and not two months after either, when she was mostly healed. For Glen, it was just one more turd in the water pipe: Good paying job, gone. Attractive shapely wife, gone. Hopes, dreams, aspirations, gone.

Oh hope, blessed hope! No, Cruel hope! For taunting thus, when all around him seemed to bespeak, nay did not seem to anything - circumstances roared loudly and resolutely,"Hopeless!".

Glen sat down on the glass-covered floor, somehow managing not to cut his hands. He was too ashamed to pray, too proud to cry. He just sat their, head in hands, his mind in a blur.

Cindy came in and issued sternly, almost decretively, "How could you, you MONSTER! Everything I've put up with from you for the last five years has been a lie, a LIE! You BASTARD! Get out of our house, you worthless, slovenly, lazy prick asshole!" When Cindy's Irish temper overcame her, she became the fishmonger's daughter on steroids. She had an arm around his neck, dragging him as best she could in her compromised postpartum state across the floor toward the opened door into the garage.

Glen pushed her aside, arose, and left on his own. He got into his '88 Chevy 250, schmockered, and thought he'd head down to Larry's to see if he wanted to join him for a few more down at the Blue Owl.

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Jul 24 @ 5:55AM  
Dark prose, I know. Maybe hits a little too close to home for some of us.

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A Slice of Middle America