2. Sad Boy in a Used Furniture Store
The bright-yellow neon sign of Luke’s Used Furniture and Mattress Emporium beckons in the dark. Lightning flickers off in the distance as I roll into the parking lot. Music blaring, I drive down the one-car lane that runs the store length and park next to the back entrance. The large, square red-brick store is lined with white square exterior flood lights that jut off the building. An assortment of insects flutters around, desperate to stay in the light and away from predators that hunt at night.
Since Luke’s doesn”t exactly sit on the safe side of town, I try to keep it well-lit and scan my surroundings before getting out. Sometimes, I’m like those bugs sticking to the lights. I know what the darkness holds; I used to thrive in it. Live for it. Now, I enjoy taking a stroll through the shadows before scurrying back. It”s taken me years and several torn wings to flutter my own way out. Well, not all the way out.
Standing with my car door propped open, I quietly study the building next to my store. My workshop, a long, narrow white concrete building, sits on the other side of the lane. I check it for signs of forced entry. Under the floodlights, the silver lock and chain appear untouched. Good.
Thunder rumbles overhead; the Southern humidity momentarily dissipates as the smell of salt water and rain lightly fills the air. My hair ruffles in the cooling storm winds as I cross the empty back lot.
I double-bolt the entry and lower the metal bar into its bracket. Keys clatter and scrape sharply in the dark as I toss them onto the table in what was once an employee break room.
A cracking, sticky sound followed by the rattle of glass condiments tucked into the fridge door fills the quiet space as I snag two beers. Watery warm light spills into the inadequate kitchen, overlapping the light from the hallway and illuminating the sparsity of food and decor. The old, grayish-flecked floor tile clashes against the simple black cabinets and white laminate countertops. Every time I”m in here, it reminds me to find some fucking motivation to remodel the depressing space.
Knocking out beer number one, I belch and lean against the wall. In the trash, the dead soldier goes, crashing down on all the others. I wince at the harsh sound—while unwelcome and grating, the noise is preferable to the hush that follows. Stillness and silence rush in to greet me in the semidarkness.
The clock in the hallway ticks.
The fridge next to me hums.
Rolling my shoulder blades and neck, I stomp out onto the open show floor and connect my phone to the store”s Bluetooth speakers. “Little Deaths” by Sir Slyserenades into the hollow space under my tall commercial ceilings, soothing my jagged edges. The smell of furniture polish, cleaner, and old wood brings familiarity and comfort.
Setting down my phone, I let my feet carry me across the worn, blue-carpeted pathway that meanders through the sets of used living room furniture; each set is from a different decade, designed in dissimilar fashion and covered in murky shadows, muting their fabric color. There is no cohesiveness.
Used washers, dryers, and other appliances I”ve bolted back together sit crisp and white toward the front of Luke’s. A yellow, murky hue from the lot filters through the floor-to-ceiling glass and mixes with luminescent blue lines that square off the windows on either side of the storefront. It”s too still in here. I miss the hum of customers and, not for the first time, consider staying open twenty-four seven. If not for my need to empty my balls regularly, I”d give it the good old college try.
As I walk the narrow pathways, my eyes snag on the fake showroom kitchens that loom in the dimness. They no longer look warm or inviting, and a kitchen should be both. A hoppy, malty flavor lingers in my mouth, turning twangy and overpowering. I toss back some of the warming beer, refreshing the taste. If I had a girlfriend, going out wouldn”t be an issue, nor would the silence. Too bad things went the way they did with Wednesday. I stop before the large windows.
Vacated storefronts face and flank me across a dead corner parking lot. Mist dampens the asphalt and blurs the black wording on the sign, filtering the world in a grainy haze. Droplets form and slide down the large windows, distorting the colors and lights of the occasional car that zooms down the street. My finger presses against the cool glass and follows the trek of one. Empty seconds tick by.
Fuck this. I”ll just go to sleep.
The blue-neon strip lighting flickers, catching my eye. It pops and falters for a moment before flashing to life. My brows pull down, and my mood darkens; I should have checked it better before I ushered the repairman out.
Fucking asshole didn”t even fix it all the way.My lungs expand in a deep sigh as I rub my hand down my face. That”s what I get, hiring people from internet classifieds for cheap. Irritation crawls over my skin and gnaws at my insides, causing me to twitch. He had been sketchy from the beginning, and I know sketchy. I will have to retrieve a refund, plus a little extra for wasting my time.
With the flip of a switch, Luke”s descends into deeper shadows as the glowing blue lines shut off. Navigating toward the back of the store, I stew over the money and energy it will take to resolve this lighting issue. I love my neon. Polishing off the beer, I elbow open my previous office—now bedroom—door.
The small practical room doesn”t bring much joy. Shoved against the wall, a rumpled, full-sized bed with tannish sheets sits unmade. My charcoal comforter sags, half off the bed and pooling onto the floor. I leave it there. Overhead, the fan clicks and circulates stale air.
Kicking my classic loafers off, I throw my suit jacket onto the roller racks, where what”s left of my clothing hangs. As I set it down, the empty beer bottle thumps on the small brown desk beside the bed. I don”t undress fully, like most nights. Instead, I flop down and roll over. Lumpy pillows crook my neck at an awkward angle; I punch and elbow them into place.
An annoying itch flares to life on my ball sack. Shit, I forgot to wash junior. I stare at the ceiling fan, contemplating. Music from my phone plays gently in the background, lulling me to relax. I give my nutsack a quick pinch and the itch fades. I”m already comfortable. I”ll do it in the morning.
The pitter-patter of gentle rain, soft music, and the clicking of my fan all meld together in a symphony of noise loud enough to block out the straying lonely thoughts. Finally, my body relaxes as I slip off into sweet dreams.