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Author's Note: This is a short story of mine that I've split into four parts to be more manageable to read. No single part has any real ending save the last one.
–and the light bulb was out.
For a moment, he didn’t know what he was looking at, but all the same it seemed to rip him back into reality, as if he’d fallen off the moon and landed hard on the Earth. ‘The light bulbs,’ he remembered Janine saying, ‘I asked you to pick up some light bulbs before you left.’
Robert felt as if someone had drenched him with a bucket of ice water. He stared up at it for a time, dark and gray. He glanced over at the kitchen switch to confirm it was on and back at the light bulb. It was dead alright.
‘You can’t even make yourself useful!’
She was always asking him to fix one thing or another and he never got around to it, including the light bulbs. It was tiring hearing it all the time then, he felt he had more important things to do and mowing the lawn was at the very bottom of his “To do” list. But now? He stared transfixed at the light bulb and the revolver began to shake in his hand. It had become so heavy. Robert was busy then, but there was nothing left to do now. It was the least he could do, he supposed. I may as well, before I. . .
Like pulling himself up from the edge of a cliff, he tore the gun away from his chin and placed it back on the table, his hand trembling violently. He was drenched with sweat and his nerves were full of lightning. Robert reached into his back pocket and pulled out his faded leather wallet. All he had was a limp five dollar bill and he figured numbly that it would be enough to buy a light bulb or two. He nodded: just one last thing before he left, he owed it to Janine.
Robert tried to stand but found himself unable, his body sapped of all strength. Gritting his teeth, he tried again and managed to get to his feet, almost losing his balance but caught the table before he fell. He took a few breaths and began to walk on rubbery legs, but before he left the kitchen he glanced back at the revolver. It sat there, waiting for him, the hammer still cocked back. Then without thinking, he took a handful of bills and threw it on top of the gun, shifting a few here and there to completely cover it.
‘I asked you to pick some light bulbs before you left’ her voice echoed. And I will, he promised, before I leave.
He walked to the 7-11 as if in a trance, like he wasn’t really there, as if he’d already died and he was just a wandering ghost. To other customers, he looked like a junkie looking to score after just coming down from a high. His face was so pale and drawn, his eyes staring, what else could he be? Yet he was still wearing his button down shirt, tucked into black slacks, and his blue and red striped tie and that made them pause. Pretty well dressed for a junkie.
Robert clawed out clumsily and grabbed a small box labeled “1 60-watt incandescent bulb.” It was $3.99. A few days ago, his mouth would have twisted with outrage. $3.99 for one light bulb was ridiculous. Now, it was about as meaningful as rinsing out an empty milk gallon before throwing it out. What did it matter now?
He placed the box on the counter, his greasy five in his fist. The scanner’s beep was jolly but the cashier’s face was wary. “Uh . . . that will be $4.31.”
Robert tossed the bill on the counter like a balled up tissue and began to walk away with the bulb in hand. “Thanks,” he mumbled in a voice that was barely audible.
“Sir, your change?”
That stopped Robert for a second, years of habit holding him back. “Keep it.”
He staggered back home feeling like he were somehow walking underwater, stealing glances at the box in his hand, the barest of curves on the corners of his lips. I got your light bulbs, Janine. Guess I’m not entirely useless. He walked back inside the house, realizing that he’d forgotten to close it again, and shut it firmly behind him. Tossing the cardboard into the garbage bin, he took out the bulb and walked over to the kitchen switch, flicking it up and down to make sure it was on. He hoisted himself on the table and swayed for a second. His heart made no reaction. Wouldn’t it be funny if after all this, I were to die by falling off the table? That wringed another small smile from him, but he couldn’t laugh.
Robert reached up and grasped the light bulb, twisting it in and out to test that last curious theory that it had somehow unscrewed itself. He twisted it out and jammed the new one back in, a few turns and the kitchen was filled with light. Robert hopped down, landing heavily on the linoleum and looked around. Perhaps he didn’t notice before, but the kitchen looked pretty nice. He made to chuck the dead bulb into the garbage can, but hesitated, and instead he placed it gently on the kitchen counter. Why? He couldn’t really say, but for some strange reason it felt wrong to just throw it out.
All done, one thing left to do. He sat back down at the table in the chair facing the hall leading to his bedroom, still bright from the lights he had switched on earlier. His left hand reached under the pile of bills and touched the sleek walnut of the .38’s handle, was about to grab it, but then stopped. His eye had caught something down the end of the hall: a small plastic bag.
For three weeks, he and Janine had been forced to take baths every night instead of showers, and they both hated it. He thought Kramer from Seinfeld had put it quite eloquently: “it’s like bathing in your own filth!” He and Janine had gone out to Home Depot and begrudgingly departed with twenty dollars to buy their cheapest shower head, but when they got home Robert dropped it in front of the bathroom and never did anything about.
‘Well, when are you going to get around to it, Rob? You’ve had weeks.’
He had the time now. Robert walked over to the garage and grabbed his tool box, dusty from disuse, and located the water valve next to the door and turned it shut. He walked back to the bathroom, snatching the shopping bag off the ground, and flicked on the light. The bathroom seemed to sparkle, it was so clean—all Janine’s doing. With two jobs, no less, he thought and the guilt twisted in his gut like a knife.
It only took him a few minutes. He wrenched off the old showerhead and dropped it into the garbage, wrenching the new one back into place (after a minute or so of wrestling with the plastic). He turned the water back on and tested out the showerhead, turning on the faucet and then pulling up the doohickey. A torrent of water responded, now without leaks, spraying in the right direction. He smiled, this time much broader on his face. However, he couldn’t help but feel the tiniest drop of embarrassment mixed with his pride. Took me three weeks to do that?
He dropped the tool box off in the garage and returned to the kitchen, but instead of reaching for the gun stopped and wondered, what else did Janine ask me to do? Robert looked out the window and noticed how shaggy the lawn had become. The revolver was almost entirely forgotten. It was almost dusk. Though he didn’t realize, there was a small grin on his face.
Robert rolled the lawnmower out of the garage and dumped the dry brown leavings inside the catcher into the garbage. He rolled up his sleeves, pumped the red ignition bulb four times, yanked the cord, and began to mow. Its dull roar filled his mind and he found himself unable to think, but still he felt an emotion begin to blossom inside of him, something he hadn’t felt for months: something like joy, like peace. With the last rays of the sun shining on his face, mowing his own lawn, he almost felt normal, as if the last few months had never really happened.
After he was done, he observed the lawn clean and groomed and felt that same sense of pride as when he fixed the showerhead. He’d done something useful; his continued existence wasn’t a complete waste.
When he walked back inside, he felt completely relaxed, like he did after working a hard day. A thousand years ago. But then he saw the gun again, a solemn promise of total peace. While he felt almost excited before, he felt nothing but fear looking at that revolver. All peace had been obliterated within him and he was reminded of all that had happened that day, feeling that same grief and emptiness.
An odor like wet garbage reached his nostrils and his nose wrinkled in distaste: the sink. He hadn’t noticed it before, not since waking up, but now it was overpowering. Yet another project left undone. He reached into his wallet and searched: empty. Some Draino was needed to unclog the sink and he was completely out of money. But then he glanced back at the .38 and a small voice spoke within him, curious, I wonder how much it’s worth?
The revolver was his solution, his way out, was he prepared to sell it? He wasn’t, at least not entirely. The prospect of waiting for everything left to be taken from him was still hateful in his mind, but somehow, the thought seemed more . . . bearable. It felt like his soul was screaming for an end, but it didn’t feel so strong as it did. Before he just wanted to die, disappear and never return, but now his lust for the sort of end his .38 would have brought was slipping. Robert still wanted to die, but now it contending with his desire to make good on his promises to Janine, prove he wasn’t worthless. What to do?
“God help me,” Robert said and he grabbed the gun. He wrapped his finger around the trigger, his body tensed. He looked at the revolver for a long time, sighed, and knew what he had to do. He thumbed the hammer back into place, snick-snick, each snick sending a tremor through his very being like the strumming of a guitar string and he wondered if he was making the right decision. Robert didn’t know, but what he did know was that he needed Draino to unclog the sink, and that the revolver should fetch a good price.
Robert stuffed the gun carefully into a brown, paper sack and headed out the door once again, this time shutting and locking it before he left.
He’d never been to a pawn shop in his life, but he figured a good place to look for one was definitely downtown. The neighborhood was seedy, the “bad part of town” as it was known. It was night. Shop windows were reinforced with bars and shady looking men congregated on every street corner, dealing meth and God knew what else. Robert stopped at the first pawn shop he saw, “Tony’s Pawn Shop” scrolling down with a diamond beneath it, all written with green neon lights.
He cast nervous glances from side to side before entering, the revolver clutched tightly to his chest. It was frightening to be walking around with a gun and he didn’t want to be caught with it, especially by a police officer. He opened the door and was greeted with the tinkling of bells. “Hey,” the man behind the counter grunted. The cashier was stick thin with long, lanky limbs and slender fingers. He was polishing a DVD with a stained, lint-free rag, observing his work behind thick black frames. He looked just as seedy as the neighborhood, a perfect representation of the “bad part of town.” A small golden cross dangled from a chain around his neck, shining brightly in the harsh light of the fluorescent bulbs.
The cashier glanced up at Robert as he approached the counter, looking at him over the top of his glasses. To the cashier, Robert looked shaky and haggard, like a man who just stepped back from the brink of death. “Can I help you?” he asked in a raspy, cigarette strained voice.
“Um, yeah,” Robert said. He placed the paper sack on the counter, stole a few more cautious glances, and pulled out the revolver. “How much can I get for this?”
The cashier considered for a moment before taking the gun from his hands, placing the rag and the DVD on the counter. He observed the revolver carefully, looking down the length of the barrel, revolving the cylinder. “Seems to be in good condition, it looks like it’s never been fired.”
“Only once,” Robert said.
The cashier grunted. He paused for a moment, sucking on his teeth. “How does a hundred and twenty bucks sound?”
Robert was hesitant. Was he doing the right thing? He had better decide before it was too late. He paused, then: “It sounds fine,” his voice was heavy.
Bobbing his head, the cashier hit a few buttons on the cash register and it dinged as the drawer slid open. He took out a leather pouch marked “Wells Fargo” and counted out six crisp twenties. “Here you go,” he reached down and grabbed a form from under the counter and gave it to Robert with a pen. “Fill this out before you go.”
Robert did, filling in his name, his social, his address, and his phone number. He stuffed the money in his wallet. “Thanks,” he said.
The cashier grunted and Robert stood there for a moment, hoping he’d made the right choice. He walked away and as he reached the door, the cashier suddenly spoke up, catching Robert by surprise. “You know,” the cashier said, turning the gun over in his hands, not looking at Robert. “When you’ve hit rock bottom, you can always go a bit lower by digging your own grave.”
Robert stared at the cashier for the longest time, stunned into silence by the suddenness of his words, but more so by their insightfulness. How did he know? He thought. Did he know? Then he looked up and met Robert’s gaze, looking at him from the top of his glasses. The cashier didn’t say anything, just looked at him for a brief moment and brought his attention back to the revolver, rolling out the cylinder and dumping the bullets on the counter. He nodded numbly and walked outside the shop, the cheerful tinkle of the bells bidding him farewell.
His next stop was the King Soopers where he picked up the Draino, the stuff with the dual-action liquids that were supposed to come together and make a super foam that would unclog anything: the good stuff. It seemed like every quality cleaner or product came in two parts, like one of those weird bombs in the third Die Hard. Why didn’t they just combine them before? He wondered. That made more sense to him, more practical at least, but he figured the guys at Johnson and Co. knew what they were doing. It was $14.99, plus some with tax, and he gave the cashier a twenty. This time he took the change.
He walked home with his head low and his hands tucked into his pockets, thumbs hanging out, thinking hard, grocery bag thumping against his thigh. Maybe he felt better, he certainly didn’t feel as worthless and low as he had a few hours ago (it felt like years), but he felt no happier. There was still the sadness like a grimy residue in the hollowness that was his being; Janine was still gone, still hated him, he was still drowning in debt, and he was still broke with no prospect of work on the horizon. His life was in pieces, but a realization struck him as hard as an iron fist, making him stop. Despite how miserable he was, he didn’t want to die. In fact, he wanted to live more than anything. He didn’t know what for, or even why, but he just . . . did. There was no explaining it. The peace his .38 would have brought was nothing he wanted any part of.
Robert shivered violently and felt so dizzy for a moment that he feared who would pass out. He steadied himself and brought a hand to his troubled heart, which was beating so hard and rapidly that he was positive that he was having a heart attack. Even after it finally slowed his mind was stuck on a single thought, like a fish bone caught in a man’s throat: how close had he come to making to committing suicide? He thought long on that as he continued on home and no matter what way he looked at it, he was certain he would have killed himself, as sure as he was of his own name. It scared him, scared him badly.
It was full dark by the time he arrived home, his house glowing from all the lights he had turned on. He shut and locked the door behind him and removed what few dishes were left to soak in the sink. Pinching the lid, he twisted the Draino open and dumped it into the sink, watched the liquids combine, grow thick and dive into the drain, like a Navy SEAL preparing to attach an explosive to an enemy ship. After a time there was a sucking like a man trying to drink his coffee through the stirrer and the water began to lower, began to drain. There was a gurgling as the sink completely emptied and again that faint smile returned to his lips. Robert turned on the water and scrubbed the sink clean—using only a carefully measured teaspoon of dish soap. Time to put the commercials to the test, he thought. Dishes washed and the sink scrubbed, the odor of wet garbage became faint, on the edge of smelling. He figured it would disappear soon.
As he dried his hands on rag, his eyes caught the dead bulb sitting on the kitchen counter. Robert looked at it and the most absurd thought entered his mind: did that light bulb save my life? The idea seemed so foolish, but was it? He was so ready to kill himself, absolutely prepared. He wanted that bullet then, wanted his brains all over the ceiling, wanted utter oblivion, but he was distracted before he pulled the trigger, distracted by something Janine had said. But then it wasn’t just the light bulb, it was Janine, Janine had saved his life. He held the light bulb in his hand and examined it like it was a jewel. Robert felt so happy, yet at the same time he felt so sad. Even after slapping Janine in the face, she still saved him. She didn’t know it, but it still didn’t change the fact. He was glad that he didn’t throw it away.
The dead bulb in hand, he walked down the hallway, flicking off switches as he went (though forgetting the kitchen) and entered his bedroom. Almost as an after thought, he took the box of hollow-points and threw them into the garbage. He then knelt down and opened his own sock drawer. Feeling silly, he put the bulb gently into the back of his drawer. He realized how stupid he might have looked, but he was beyond caring. The bulb had become important to him, had become a reminder of a mistake he had come so close to making. It would be sacrilege to throw it away now.
Robert felt tired, completely wiped out, and he switched off the lights and lay down on his bed. He kicked off his shoes and lay there in the dark, and considered the words that the cashier had said. How very insightful he was, and he felt guilty for believing him to be shady and dangerous. He was right, he thought, you could always go a bit lower.
Sleep took him, and he drifted off into darkness.
The front door slammed and Robert was torn from his sleep, heart pounding, his body slick with a cold sweat. A burglar? He thought. Logic came slowly to him, his mind still fogged by sleep, but after a time he came to the realization that a thief probably wouldn’t come in through the front door, and shut it so carelessly no less.
Could it be . . .? No, it couldn’t possibly.
He sat up quick, his head feeling light from the suddenness, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, facing the bedroom door. He heard footsteps, first soft as the person walked on the carpet, then louder and clicking as he (she?) entered the kitchen. There the footsteps paused and seemed to halt for the longest time. Was it her?
Robert glanced over at his digital alarm clock: it was 1:13 AM.
At last, the footsteps continued again and he felt his heart beating in his wrists, in his throat, in his arm pits, in his upper thighs. The footsteps grew louder and louder, then stopped once more. The door opened and his heart paused: it was Janine.
Even in the darkness, he could see the swelling of her face. She flicked on the switch and Robert went light blind for a moment. He sprang to his feet. “Janine?” he said.
Indeed her face was bruised and swollen, but not by as much as he thought it would. She looked pale and drained, her eyes puffed and red. There wasn’t a trace of anger on her face, only grief. Janine still looked as beautiful as ever.
Robert felt the tears, hot and thick, beginning to spill from his eyes. “Janine, baby,” his voice was cracked and thin. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”
She put a finger to his lips and hugged him tight, held him for a long time, and she buried her face into his shoulder. He could feel her warm tears. Despite everything that had happened, she had returned. All his troubles were forgotten with her in his arms and he felt so happy that he thought his heart would burst from it. She kissed him on the lips. “Don’t say anything,” she finally said, “I know you’re sorry, and so am I.”
“You shouldn’t be sorry. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault, I—”
“Shhh,” she said, and looked him in the eyes. “Maybe,” she granted, beginning to smile. “But I never should have said those things. I was awful.”
He shook his head, and wiped his tears with the sleeve of his arm. “No, Janine, you’re wonderful. All you did was tell me the truth. I’m an asshole.”
Janine gave him yet another small smile and touched his cheek with her hand, softly. “Yeah you are, but I love you anyway. God help me.”
Robert laughed, truly laughed, and she joined him. Together they laid down on the bed, both still fully dressed and held each other, her arms wrapped around his waist, her face pressed against him. “Thanks for getting the light bulbs, and thanks for draining the sink,” she said into his back.
More tears spilled from his eyes and he took her hand and kissed it. “I also fixed the shower head.”
He could feel her smile. “Thanks, Rob.” Then a moment later: “Tomorrow will be better,” she murmured.
Robert stared out the window and the moon, considering her words, and he knew that she was right. Somehow she was right.
“I know.”
The morning felt so surreal to Robert and he could scarcely believe it was actually Janine sleeping beside him. She looked so peaceful. He moved her arms carefully, not wanting to wake her up. She didn’t. He headed out the door, shutting the door quietly behind him, and headed down to the 7-11 again to pick up a newspaper for 50 cents. All he cared about was the Classifieds but he knew Janine would want the rest to read before heading to work.
When he got back, Janine was still asleep so he gave her a kiss to wake her up. “Wake up, babe, you’ll be late for work.”
She yawned and turned her head to his and gave him a radiant smile. “Morning, honey,” she said.
He threw the newspaper onto the kitchen table and hopped into the shower, infinitely grateful that it was actually a shower and not a bath. Feeling rejuvenated, he walked back into his bedroom and found Janine crouched over, looking through her clothing. She had selected a shirt and some jeans for the day, and now she was looking for some socks. When he entered the room she snapped her head around and looked at him, fear etched deep in her face. “Rob, where’s the gun?”
Janine was staring at him but he wouldn’t look at her. Guilt ripped at him and he couldn’t bear to tell her what he’d almost done. Instead, he walked over to his side of the dresser, pulled off his towel, and began to dress. “I got rid of it,” he said, and he left it at that.
She looked at him for a time, but he still wouldn’t look at her. Janine thought of saying something but decided to keep quiet and to trust Robert.
Instead, she chose to enjoy the shower, but though she was loving it, she still couldn’t shake a feeling of dread, a feeling that he’d done something or had tried to do something when she left yesterday. She didn’t want to think about it. But had he done something, she knew wouldn’t have been able to forgive herself.
Robert fried the last of the eggs—four of them—and toasted some bread. By the time she got out of the shower, he had a plate of eggs and toast ready for her, complete with a newspaper, minus a Classifieds section.
“So what are you going to do today?” she asked. “Same old?”
“Same old,” he said heavily, scanning the job listings. “Who knows, maybe today will be the day.”
She sighed, and glanced at the bills lying on the table between them. Those wouldn’t wait any longer. “Yeah, who knows. Maybe you could—”
Then the phone rang. They both looked at it, hung next to the microwave, its shrill ringing driving away all other thought. Robert’s mouth twisted. Any calls they ever got those days was seldom ever good, usually some pissed off bill collector or recording calling to remind them how broke they were.
“I’ll get it,” Janine said.
She dropped her fork on the plate and snatched up the phone. “Hello?”
Robert looked curiously at her face. When she picked up her eyebrows were contracted and her face was weary, but within only a couple of seconds, her eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open. She placed a placed a hand over the receiver and looked up at Robert. “Rob, it’s for you.” She sounded excited.
He gave her a confused look. “Who is it?”
“Just talk to him,” she breathed.
Robert shrugged and took the phone from Janine. He cast her another glance and then said: “Hello?” into the phone.
“Hi,” a voice said back. “Is this Robert Straussen?”
“Yes it is.”
“This is Michael Jones from General Electric. I was looking at your resume and was wondering if you’d like to come in and discuss a managerial position I have open?”
His heart began to beat faster and he looked up at Janine, his eyes as wide as hers were, who looked back, waiting with baited breath. “Yes, yes I would,” he said, weakly.
“Fantastic. How does noon sound, 8th and Lennox, South Terrace building?”
Robert scrambled for a pen and jotted those down on the table, barely able to make out the words from his excitement. “Fine,” he tried to sound calm.
“Great. Hope to see you tomorrow, Robert.”
“So do I.”
Michael laughed. “Alrighty, I’ll be seeing you. Take care.”
Robert pressed the off button with nerveless fingers and set the phone down gently on the kitchen table.
“So?” Janine said, trembling.
He looked up at her, and smiled softly. She looked so beautiful. “I think things are going to get better.”
------
One day me and my granpappy were goin' fishin' down by the crik. I slipped and fell on a rock, skinning my knee and my granpappy leaned in real close and asked: "Is the rock okay?"
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