Doodling

What was the point? Take a bunch of chemicals, only to have Life shit all over me? Were these chemicals going to make the shit somehow magically disappear? Or maybe make it smell better?

The sugar hangover was horrible. My head was throbbing so bad that my vision was blurred. I went back to bed.

"God damn, what a slut," I snapped when I woke up, or came to. "Just how many, huh? Just how many fucking mother fuckers did you fuck? Fucking whore."

"It's ten o'clock, man, you going school?" Hank asked.

"Fuck it," I said, rolling over.

"Man, Bert, come on, man. School? You're good at school," Hank tried to motivate me.

"Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it," I screamed, burrowing underneath my pillow.

I don't know what time it was. I was so hungry I was light-headed. I felt weak, sluggish. Hank wasn't in the home, even though his truck was right outside.

I looked at my cell, but it was of no help. I'd not plugged it into the charger so it was still dead.

Looking into the refrigerator, nothing interested me. I forced myself to blanch the broccoli then cut the florets away from the stalk. I dug out the carrot sticks and the humus and sat down. By the time I finished, my body felt better. But my mind still continued to race.

Again, I saw no reason to take my medication, but forced myself to take them. Then I sat on the living room couch. I sat and stared at the wall.

"God, I wish I believed in you," I said. "I'd be praying my ass off right now."

But God had disappointed me so many times. Every time it looked like things were going my way, God would jerk the rug out from under me.

I once saw a magician take a table cloth and jerk it off a table. Didn't even move the plates and glasses and lighted candelabra. He just jerked the table cloth completely off and everything stayed on the table.

God wasn't that kind. He jerked the table cloth and everything crashed to the floor, including me. And the gravy and mashed potatoes and meatloaf fell right on top of me.

"Mashed potatoes," I said.

I made a meatloaf and fixed a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes and made some skillet gravy. I even made some string beans, shocking them right when they were at that perfect density.

Hank's foodar was working just fine. Just as I lightly salted the string beans, he made his appearance.

Thankfully, the next day was Saturday. I don't know what time it was; I still had not charged my phone. What was the point?

I could hear Hank talking to someone; probably one of his customers. I'd asked him once how he supported himself. In all the time I'd known him, Hank had never had a job. He admitted that he was a pharmacist. He dispensed glaucoma treatments to most of the residents of our trailer park.

I didn't know if I was hungry or tired or both. So, I just stayed in bed. I didn't even look up when Hank opened my bedroom door.

"Hey," Sandra said softly.

"What?" I said, not looking up.

"What, Bertie, what's going on?" Sandra asked, sitting on the edge of my bed. "Huh? I mean, other day, you were all happy and then, all of a sudden..."

"What you think happened? Huh?" I asked, my throat tight. "She's not, Joyce's not my daughter."

"Bertie," Sandra said, lying next to me.

I was under the thin comforter and blanket and sheet. Sandra was on top of comforter and blanket and sheet, kind of pinning me down. She lay her left arm and leg over me, trapping me.

I didn't know how that felt, her lying over me like that. I didn't know if I liked it or hated it. I didn't know if I wanted her to roll on top of me, press her body against me, hold me down. Or if I wanted her to get her God damned fucking whore arm off of me, get the fucking fuck out of my fucking bed and get the fuck out of my fucking trailer, out of my fucking life and just fuck off, fuck herself, go get fucked and fucking die and leave me the fuck alone.

"Bertie, listen, you're not the father," Sandra said softly.

"I know that. Fucking test says..." I said, sighing.

"But, Baby, you don't need be the father to be the daddy, do you?" Sandra said and kissed my neck.

My Therapist is not condoning our marriage. Well, fuck her; she's not invited. I stay on my medication, I continue to eat right, even exercise, and remember to pray.

We had Joyce's one year birthday here at our trailer. There's four mothers with babies in our trailer park, ranging in age from four months to three years. And there's two mommies that go to St. Edmond Catholic Church. We sit with them at Mass; we've become friends with them and their babies. So, there were plenty of babies at our little girl's birthday party.

Hank moved out; says a married couple needs a little bit of privacy. He didn't move far; just right next door into Miss Annie's trailer. Which is kind of weird. I mean, she's fifty three and Hank's only twenty eight. Maybe Hank's eyesight really is bad.

March twenty first is the big day. Get it? Three. Two. One. Go! Hank's my best man which is only right.

The End.

With special thanks to BeBop3 for his assistance and encouragement.