Lead Pajamas
I stumbled in the door from the garage. My guts burned and my hands trembled. I thought I might puke. I thought of that black liquid we were drinking the night before, and I had to run into the bathroom. I didn’t barf. In the mirror, my face stared back at me. My Jewfro hadn’t been shorn since right before I went to Florida. (Before that, I went to the barber every other week.) It stuck up all over. There were dark circles under my eyes. Seemed like I should probably shave.
The phone rang. The machine beeped. Someone said: “You’re a fucker, Reinstein.” They hung up. Wisconsin.
“No. Shut up. Please,” I said out loud. My drunkenness didn’t make Wisconsin go away.
I stumbled out. On the floor in front of my bedroom, I found a piece of paper.
Jerri had left a note for me.
F,
I’m at Terry’s tonight. I’d like to unplug the phone. The calls are terrible. I’m sorry, honey. Are you okay with me unplugging the phone?
Love,
J.
Yes, I was ready to unplug the phone. No, I didn’t like Jerri.
She was with Terry. Terry Sauter, a man who stopped speaking to his kids just because of a divorce.
A minute later, I fell into bed. An hour later, I woke up. Dad had been in my dreams. No. Please. Dead Dad hanging from the rafters. No…
I don’t want to go back here. Please.
Dad wasn’t buried.
I tried watching the Homo Reinstein rap to get angry again, but I didn’t get angry. My stomach hurt. It hurt my feelings. I walked through the house and unplugged the three landlines. Jerri had said to. I couldn’t hear another bad message.
I lay down in bed, so sick, and dreamed of Aleah and me biking, delivering newspapers, like we did during our summer together. I woke, turned over, grabbed my phone, and I texted her: I’m with Abby S now. I’m sorry.
Aleah responded immediately. Why do you want to hurt me?
My response? Because you did this to me.
Aleah: Do you want to talk?
Me: No.
Then I literally fell on my face on the floor. Then I got up and tried to run. I put on workout clothes: a jacket, sweats. Headed out the door. Ran about two hundred yards down the driveway and onto the main road. Then I barfed in the ditch.
Oh shit. This is bad shit. This is the worst. Okay. Okay. Andrew?
I hobbled back up to the house. Grabbed my phone to call Andrew. Found a text from Abby: Feel like crap. You want to come over?
Yes, I did.
Dudes like me want to be normal.
Just going to run over to my new girlfriend’s house! No time for your doctor, Andrew!