Allison and Olivia stood in line at a register in the grocery store when Allison saw Jane Arness. Jane was dressed in her scrubs and digging into the medley of vegan and vegetarian products in her basket while referring back to the list in her hand. Allison knew Jane and her connection to Hatchet. She had made snide remarks about the woman when Jane and Hatchet were sleeping together. Allison watched the plenty in the basket in front of her emptied bit by bit and run across the scanner but her thoughts kept drifting to the woman standing down the aisle behind her. Allison clasped Olivia’s arm, Stay with the basket, honey, she told her and walked to Jane, surprising her in the suddenness of it.
I suppose you know where he is, Allison told her, he’s just abandoned his child, you know. Jane just stared into her. And Allison stood there staring into Jane, trying to gauge the nurse’s stake in this affair, her eyes becoming gyrating green drains in their sockets, but she came up empty. She turned and went back to Olivia who was straining to pull a huge bag of dog food from the lower carriage of the cart. Who is that lady, Momma? Olivia asked. She is no one we want to be around, Olivia. Jane fought the urge to unload her frustration on her. She knew she could intimidate this stupid woman but she bottled it up until she reached her car where she moved the groceries into the trunk then she stopped and dialed Hatchet’s number. But he never answered.
Poole sat in his dark living room, the twilight blue of his laptop setting off the lines in his face, painting it a lonesome distant celestial body reflecting the rays of far away stars. He had been drinking for several hours and the liquor had lubed his tears and emancipated his most melancholy memories. They raced in orbit around his mind, blinking at him in elliptical paths around his skull, compelling him to dig through his vast cache of old photographs. He saw Hatchet and himself laughing, his arm over Hatchet’s shoulder, beer in hand. Jane had written HAM IS NASTY on the sidewalk in front of them in big pink chalk letters. She was sneering at them comically. He found Jane and Hatchet in a lovers’ embrace among a sea of other Christmas partygoers, Poole behind them, giving the camera the finger and an outstretched tongue. Jane and Poole sitting on bar stools, bathed in red bar glow, listening to an animated Hatchet ranting on the evils of police or the courts or fast food. Hatchet sitting in Poole’s lap with an exaggerated grimace as Poole placed a pucker against his cheek, a crowd of friends in a raucous laughter around them. The three of them locked arm in arm at a friend’s wedding, a rare thing for Hatchet to attend, their smiles wide, their eyes on fire, their mood as indestructible as diamonds. Shots of whiskey. Shotgunned beers. Joints in passage. Endless images of smiles. Poole and Hatchet at the coffee shop playing chess, Hatchet on the verge of victory. Jane with a toy gun against Hatchet’s temple. Hatchet with his arm around some girl’s waist. And another girl. And another.
Poole gulped the last of his whiskey and closed the laptop, snuffing out the light. Just another lonesome place removed from the cosmos in silence.
I suppose you know where he is, Allison told her, he’s just abandoned his child, you know. Jane just stared into her. And Allison stood there staring into Jane, trying to gauge the nurse’s stake in this affair, her eyes becoming gyrating green drains in their sockets, but she came up empty. She turned and went back to Olivia who was straining to pull a huge bag of dog food from the lower carriage of the cart. Who is that lady, Momma? Olivia asked. She is no one we want to be around, Olivia. Jane fought the urge to unload her frustration on her. She knew she could intimidate this stupid woman but she bottled it up until she reached her car where she moved the groceries into the trunk then she stopped and dialed Hatchet’s number. But he never answered.
Poole sat in his dark living room, the twilight blue of his laptop setting off the lines in his face, painting it a lonesome distant celestial body reflecting the rays of far away stars. He had been drinking for several hours and the liquor had lubed his tears and emancipated his most melancholy memories. They raced in orbit around his mind, blinking at him in elliptical paths around his skull, compelling him to dig through his vast cache of old photographs. He saw Hatchet and himself laughing, his arm over Hatchet’s shoulder, beer in hand. Jane had written HAM IS NASTY on the sidewalk in front of them in big pink chalk letters. She was sneering at them comically. He found Jane and Hatchet in a lovers’ embrace among a sea of other Christmas partygoers, Poole behind them, giving the camera the finger and an outstretched tongue. Jane and Poole sitting on bar stools, bathed in red bar glow, listening to an animated Hatchet ranting on the evils of police or the courts or fast food. Hatchet sitting in Poole’s lap with an exaggerated grimace as Poole placed a pucker against his cheek, a crowd of friends in a raucous laughter around them. The three of them locked arm in arm at a friend’s wedding, a rare thing for Hatchet to attend, their smiles wide, their eyes on fire, their mood as indestructible as diamonds. Shots of whiskey. Shotgunned beers. Joints in passage. Endless images of smiles. Poole and Hatchet at the coffee shop playing chess, Hatchet on the verge of victory. Jane with a toy gun against Hatchet’s temple. Hatchet with his arm around some girl’s waist. And another girl. And another.
Poole gulped the last of his whiskey and closed the laptop, snuffing out the light. Just another lonesome place removed from the cosmos in silence.
Edit 11.29.2018