Broken Glass - James N. Markels
It was quiet, which was good, until I heard them start to rouse in the
next room—my roommate John and his girl—and I knew like always they’d
start at it, welcoming the grimy new day with an equally grimy fuck that he’d
tell me about later, and that’s usually my cue to get into the shower—where
I do my best thinking—and forget all about them as I pass a soapy rag over
myself and pick at my hairs in the cool stale water. Today I’m in a funk,
though, and I’m not done with my goddamn reading, and I think this is the time
to draw the line; they’ll just have to wait.
They don’t. At first it’s just the smacks of a sloppy kiss, but soon
the bed is squeaking like frightened mice, and jesus she’s going, punctuating
the rhythm with cries. I think I hear him slapping something meaty, and then
she’s finding words like HOh GAWd, HOh BABY, NUh, YEAH, and other crude,
simple things that only sound sexy when you’re actually fucking. It’s
impossible to read through without making me angry, and finally I’ve had
enough—even though she’s still going on with it—throwing the paper on the
floor with the underwear and rushing to the bathroom with my fingers in my ears.
It must be a special occasion or something, because when I’m through I
still hear them, goddamn I still hear HER, and that awful bed, and christ if my
head still doesn’t hurt as I towel it quickly and hunt for clothes amidst the
confusion of my room. I’m so close to going nuts, ready to break something
against my head and scream at them through the cheap wall and stomp and stomp
and stomp and throw myself. FUCK-fuck-FUCK I find clothes and pull them on fast
and hard and bolt barefoot to the kitchen where things are a little quieter and
the refrigerator’s hum takes care of the rest.
I need a drink, finding the bottle first, having worse luck with a glass,
finally spying the one I used two nights ago, rubbing out the amber stain at the
bottom with some water and my thumb, then filling it up. The first gulp is
horrible, I almost don’t keep it down, and I figure this time I need to take
it easy and put some ice on my face for a bit. I was almost feeling calm and
human, maybe ready to go for a walk or something, when John walks in, naked,
still wet, loose, self-satisfied, and not the least bit perturbed at seeing me
standing there in the small kitchen, a drink in one hand and a bundle of paper
towel wrapped around melting ice in the other, almost human.
“I really don’t need to see that.” I turn away.
“Thought you’d left.” He brushes past me to open the fridge and
root around. Some of his wet gets on me. Her wet. Oh god, I get the heat
prickles and watery eyes, eyeing the sink just in case. I try not to breathe in
his smell. He moves too slowly, finally grabbing two beers and setting them on
the counter, reaching for the paper towels and ripping off a wad so he can start
cleaning himself. It’s revolting.
“How’d we sound?” He winks at me.
“Not now. Just … not now.”
“She likes it when I shoot on her,” he says, and that’s when I puke
in the sink, still hanging on to my drink, fumbling for the faucet to wash it
out of my sight and smell, as he laughs, pops a beer, and moons me as he leaves.
Of course I already knew it—he had told me the same thing before, and I think
my reaction then was “that’s cool” or something like it, but that was
before I’d heard him scream at her and her hysterical crying, her breaths
coming in whoops and sudden starts, something breaking, and other things I’d
only wonder about since I couldn’t take any more and would escape to the bar
down the street and wouldn’t come back until I was good and drunk and out of
money, ready to write about something that would make me feel useful and
talented, even if I knew I’d only destroy it later with a wretched hangover.
Writing is all about routine, you see, and that was mine.
John is gone but my stomach is still upset; I manage only sips now, and
the sweat is beading on the back of my neck, and I want to go outside where I
imagine it has to be fresher and cooler than in the kitchen, though it’s June
in New Orleans—June is the best time to run away because it’s warm enough to
sleep anywhere—and I know there will be no relief. I make it to the
porch—really an outdoor closet—and feel worse instantly, but safer from
them, maybe out of sight enough that they’ll leave me blissfully alone. I pat
myself looking for a cigarette—FUCK, I left them in my room, and I’m
desperate not to be near John and the girl—so I sit on the miserable porch in
the nasty, humid, lifeless air, sipping so carefully, dying for a cigarette,
hoping to god that they’d get the hell on with their day already.
I close my eyes to the sad, sodden borough I live in the middle of, doze
a bit. A police car’s howl jumps me and I start thinking about bread—nice,
fresh, buttered French bread—do I have any? I can’t remember, but I’m
looking longingly back to the kitchen anyway, weighing if I’m hungry enough to
leave my tiny harbor. Make it quick, make it quick, I’m off and moving and
opening the cupboard—NOTHING—the fridge—NOTHING—getting frustrated, now
I’m thinking if I have any money, it’s only fifty-nine cents for a fresh
loaf, and maybe I can handle some of that thick peach jam from Stouley’s
that—
“Still around, are you?” John’s voice is so sudden and close that I
nearly shout. She is with him, apprehensive and small, neatened up just enough
for the public. “You still look like shit.” He had the empty beer bottles in
one hand.
“I’m alright with it,” I think I said. Things start moving too fast
for me to remember clearly. He’s trying to egg me on since he knows I’m in a
bad mood but not enough so that I’ll rip without some help, and he has those
bottles plus about thirty pounds on me. He probably likes showing his girl how a
bullfighter controls a bull, because when I finally come at him he is ready,
knocking my wind out before slamming me up against the wall, holding me there
with one iron arm while pounding at my left ear and shoulder with the other as I
yelp, until I finally slip out in desperation, running for my room—she’s
covering her face and making an awful moan—lock the door, wiping the tears
from my face, my ear buzzing, head pounding, hearing him yell DON’T PEEP ON US
AGAIN YOU FREAK before they leave. I don’t deserve any of it, but I get it
just the same, and it’s a routine I’ve accepted in life. Fucking routine.
I finally get out of there and move to Atlanta a few months later, where
the air is better but the rum is more expensive, find myself a woman and some
part-time work. I hear some time later that John’s girl left him—he hit her
once too often—and he sent me a rambling letter saying that he didn’t mean
nothing, didn’t mean nothing at all, and nobody understands him. “Nothing at
all,” I said when I crumpled it up and threw it away, and I haven’t thought
of him much since.
I drink from broken glasses now—it makes me take extra notice of everything. I won’t lose track or get complacent. My woman tried to make me stop, but I broke every glass in the place. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be cut carelessly, and that simple innocence is what I love about her.