The Nightingale

DING DONG! The hideously loud noise sounded again, renewing an attempt to crushing his skull. Ronald tried to sit up, but his stomach was cramped. After another night on a twenty-year-old mattress that sagged in the middle like a meteor crater, he found his back was also a mess. DING DONG! DING DONG! He finally managed to log roll to the edge of the bed and get his feet under him. He slipped his ratty bathrobe on over his pasty white body, before valiantly pushing himself erect. His pushed his filthy mop of auburn hair to the side for a moment, then let it fall back. Too much burning sunlight has seeping in through dirty, bare window. The hair provided protection and a comforting darkness.

In the distance, he could here his answering machine in the middle of taking a message. "..'rom the Law Offices of Andrews, Santiago and Peterson again. I urge you to return my calls! If you are not willing to settle this out of court I will be forced to recommend that my clients go ahead with this... " Mercifully, the message cut off just as he was crossing into his cluttered living room.

He really needed to break that damn machine. Still, every time he did, the company showed up the next day with a new one. It was all part of his contract. They let him get drunk and hate himself and the world, but when it was time to trot his butt out in public then he had better be ready to receive his instructions, to dust off his old uniform and do his best to hide the ravages that a thirty year steady diet of cheap booze, cigarettes and double cheese burgers with triple the cheese enacted on his features. It was "Show Time" and the bleeding show had to go on, hang over or no hang over.

DING DONG! He staggered toward the front door, briefly catching a curled yellow toenail in the thick shag carpet. The noise pounded through his head again. He peered through the screen door to see who the hell was ringing his God damn doorbell.

It was a girl. A very little girl. She was an adorable bundle of brown pigtails, rose red dimples and hope and love all wrapped up in a little violet dress with a matching beret. Tiny patches covered a white sash that crossed her chest. CRAP, he thought to himself, as he scratched his sweaty butt. IT'S TO FREAKIN' EARLY FOR THIS!.

"Mister, mister! Wanna by some of my Little Nightingales cupcakes? I baked them myself! I got a gold patch for them and everything! Only two dollars each!"

Her pearly whites were flashing at him. She exuded goodness, the spirit of free enterprise and young Republicanism at its finest. He felt like he might need to throw up. He was not at all sure that he cared if she was in the way or not when the volcano erupted.

"Go away kid, your bothering me!" he barked hoarsely.

"But Mister! Mr. King next door bought five and that nice girl Wendy across the street bought a whole dozen! Don't you know that this is for charity?" Her eyes were open as wide as the Chesapeake Bay. Her voice had a half pleading, half demanding tone. He realized that he really was going to throw up in a matter of seconds.

"I don't give a monkey's butt what those chumps bought. GET OUT YOU LITTLE BEGGAR!" He slammed the door in her face, and turned toward the bathroom. The robe fluttered behind his ghostly white body as he dashed forward. In his haste, slipped on a pile of greasy cheeseburger wrappers. His big, hairy feet went out from under him, sending him airborne for severally yards, before landing flat on his back onto the hard wood floor. A moment later, he wasn't aware of anything at all, for a long, long time.

On the porch, the little girl stood for a moment, arms akimbo. Her cute as a button face was pinched up like a lemon. "What a crabby old clown he is. I bet his dollars would smell like grandfather's beer breath anyway! She considered smearing a cupcake on his windows, or using her official Nightingales permanent marker to write an insult on his mailbox, so that others would know what a jerk he was. She only considered for an instant though. She had been brought up better than that.

With a lift of her chin and a tight turn, she shook the dust of her feet and moved on. Maybe she would have better luck at the next house. It was a big white brick house with old-fashioned gables and even a tower. In her young mind, it looked like the castle of a fairy princess. Princesses must have everything, like in the stories, but even they had never had anything like Mary Joe Moon's special spiced pumpkin cupcakes.