Deadbeat

My days are typically OK until I walk to the boxes, plug in my key, and take the mail back with me to my place.

Dear Patient,

After many failed attempts to reconcile your balance, we have not received a payment in quite some time. We have been patient allowing you to pay off this balance, however since payments have not been consistent, THIS ACCOUNT MUST BE PAID IN FULL. Please be advised that if payment is not received by 4/20/13, YOUR ACCOUNT WILL BE PLACED WITHIN OUR COLLECTION AGENCY AND WE WILL NO LONGER BE HANDLING IT.

Fuck them.

I’m past due on another credit card owing 7hundredsomething. I don’t have the money, shit, I don’t have ANY money. My student loans will be horse kicking me in the stomach soon too, maybe I can give the degree back, get a refund. Two quarters slide into my leg when I sit on the bed; the current balance of my total savings, without looking at my bank account. The last time I took a look, I had -.67 cents in it. They’ve probably closed my account by now; I haven’t received any mail with red and yellow “urgent!” and “sign here” stickers everywhere at least.

Christ. I think I’m a deadbeat.

I run a hand through my unwashed hair, slide it down my face, and try to soberly figure out a way to make enough money to pay back this shit. I could have had the money but I have too much pride. Quit my job because my boss is a child, a pretty dumb reason. The quit made my waterfall income a quickly depleting pool. The dry season is forcing me out of the apartment soon if I can’t think of something. I’d probably be at least tempted to shoot myself if I had a gun, but unless I can rent a gun for one quarter and buy a bullet with another, I’m shit out of luck.

I toss the mail from my lap to the far edge of the bed, I don’t want to think about it. I lay back on the mattress,  a little too firm for me. I’ve had it since I moved into the place about 6 months ago; my father helped me buy it. I picked it out hastily, as I did the apartment. There’s cockroaches in the room and the bed is too hard. I guess it worked out for me though; I don’t have a desk so the bed has been my desk, dresser, office, and dining room table. One night when I came home shitfaced it was my bathroom. Can barely sleep on the thing but at least it’s multi-purpose.

On the floor is a half emptied bottle of 7 dollar Moet and an empty glass that smells like stale wads of bubblegum; a deep red layer of sugar and nastiness from the wine sits unmoved at the bottom of the glass even when I pick it up. I pour a half glass, hold my breath while lifting it to my lips, and chug. Ugh! Jesus! The red stickiness is still at the bottom of the glass; doesn’t even look wet. Next to the Moet is a bottle of mostly drunken water. When I pick it up I knock the wine over onto the carpet and my computer bag. Oh god damn it what the fuck! I have carpet cleaner in the room somewhere. I use it when my cat pisses on the floor, or when I piss the bed. I’ll find it later, fuck this. I turn off the lights, it’s time for sleep. At 4 in the afternoon. Fuck it. I’m a deadbeat.

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Author: antbrov

Fiction | Magical Realism | Introspective Write > Edit > Hate > Learn > Write...

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