Bobby shook his head, “Damn fool.” Tom was at it again, pulling all nighters at the club, then working all day. “What’s he do, sleep 20 minutes a night? He’s killing himself.”
Tom’s wife of four years left him one day. Tom went to work, and when he came home she was gone. Took the dog with her. Left him the house, three bedrooms, two baths, and a hell of a kitchen Tom never set foot in.
The son of a bitch sat in his house, and cried his eyes out. “I loved her! I gave her everything! And now she’s gone!”
Bobby brought him a six-pack one Saturday, “We need to cheer you up.” After the two of them drained all six cans, they decided to go to a club. “We’ll watch the women writhe and shake their hips and boobs, and enjoy the eye candy.” And they had. They’d watched, and talked about how those tiny bits of fabric managed to stay put on those knockers. And how that skirt never came up high enough to show what was underneath it.
Bobby hauled that sick puppy Tom home that night, dumped him in that big old house, then drove home, and passed out.
Tom told him he went back to the club Sunday night, found a girl, and she showed him what was under that tiny skirt. He raided that club two, three times a week. Son of a bitch was sleeping with three different girls on different nights. And always, they danced ‘till the club threw them out.
“Damn fool.” Tom poured another shot of barrel aged gin, turned it up and downed it. “He don’t know what he’s doing. Killing himself, ‘cause that bitch left him.” He stared at the black TV screen. It was well past eleven, and he had to work the next day. “I should crash soon.” He huffed, “Yeah, right. I have to work.”
Work was hell, he knew that. Every day, he turned the car off in the parking lot at work, and his head started to ache. “Place is killing me.” He stared at his reflection on the TV screen. “Owns me, don’t it?” The job. The money. The paycheck. Bobby had things he wanted to do, places he wanted to go, things he wanted to own. All of it took money. “Suck it up, buttercup. Do your job.”
“Tom ain’t the only damn fool killing himself, is he?” Bobby poured one more shot of gin. He watched is swirl in the shot glass, studied the way the light reflected off it, enjoyed its aroma. He chugged it down, put the bottle back in the cabinet, with the shot glass upside down on top.
As he headed toward bed, he paused, and stared at his reflection in the TV screen once more. “He’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land…” His voice trailed off as he wandered down the hall to his bed.
This is my entry into #FlashMobWrites 1×31, hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels. Please, go read all the stories in for #FlashMobWrites 1×31. You might find something you like. But if you don’t read them, how will you ever know?