Big Dump

Small House Stories
Story 3 (in which there's a decent metaphor)

They joke that we are the outsiders in your Levittown. True, probably. Our house is shabby and our lawn is wild and untamed. The rusty mailbox squeaks each time somebody opens it.

I don’t know about others, but I personally lust after unkempt grass. Sometimes when I’m pissed and they kick me out (afraid that I might puke anytime), I just stand up in the dark and brush my palms and fingers against the sharp blades, while my clouded head is pushing painfully against the black sprinkled flesh of the sky. I feel small then – not that I feel particularly big at other times – it’s just that I imagine that I’m a Lilliputian and the house behind me is actually huge, and the whole world is at least two times bigger.

But those are my stupid drunken thoughts.

If I don’t collapse in that same grass, I stumble back inside and find the best possible position against the floor to sleep in. Sometimes I can make it to the sofa. Sometimes the floor seems enough. All I know is that I usually wake up in a different place, with something placed under my head and something thrown over me. And then I remember someone’s words. And when I reach into my pocket, I find a small white piece of paper.

I don’t know when was the first time I found the note. Maybe it was a month ago, maybe a year – all I know is that I remember crumpling it up and throwing it out with a chuckle. Somebody is taking a piss. Ed. Colin. Whoever. The second time I got it, the idea that it might’ve been true started drilling into my skull.

I got them every time I woke up half-remembering what happened the day before. Never when it was just the five of us. Always the same tone. Always in blue ink.

“Jonny is a strapping lad,” somebody once told me and I emitted a high-pitched laugh. I was slouched and admiring the feeling of warmth in my body, the sweat drying from the gig we played that night, the alcohol. Jonny was talking to someone, and I looked at him, cocking my head. In an instant, he turned his eyes to me and I grinned at him, receiving an identical grin back.

“He is a good musician, too,” somebody continued and I nodded vigorously, still keeping the eye contact. Then Jon was nudged and forced to turn away from me. So much for the staring game.

So I watch him talk. I watch his gestures and shy movement of his hand until it cuts through the air with an experienced deftness and I almost can hear the sound of the slashed space. My palms become sticky in a second and I hear my heart beating in my ears, and somewhere in the back of my mind it is all coming together.

…::…

Note #1:

Do you remember this?
“Those can't just disappear mysteriously,” you said. Slightly cross. Mys-te-riously. And your hand, two fingers together, made a frantic swirl in the air next to your head.
I tried to repeat that gesture. Nothing came out of it. You see, in my version it’s all angles; in yours – nice curves. But I’ve tried it so many times now, that it’s almost perfect.