Creator1

I folded laundry, rolled some joints for her and got her drugs ready after a long night of hard work. I barely knew her, but in our own way, we were a twisted Phoeng and Fowler, except I was the apathetic author and purveyor of pipes as well. I was okay with this, the relationship was one birthed of necessity and mutual benefit. Her and I get along, I make sure her house is in order, safe, and I drive her places, in return I stay here for free and sample services on the house. I didn’t have Pyle to run off with, though if I did, it would be Oregon and bears lately.

I awoke to the door swinging open, the light carving out glowing white sliver of the house, prohibiting anyone from seeing what was there. She clopped in, a stranglehold on a brown paper bag and one tucked ungracefully between her elbow and side boob. She tossed one to me. I could feel the cold damp spot where the grease stain had existed. I thanked her and ate my free meal while she lit up a joint, inhaled and passed it to me. I inhaled and returned it nodding to her in respect.

“Anymore clients today?”

“No.” She never discussed her work. Perhaps she was ashamed of it, although I thought she had a real talent.

“I was thinking about writing a story about those bear attacks.”

“What bear attacks?”

“The one’s I told you about this morning.” I said, impatiently. I forget she talks to multiple people a day, just like she forgets I talk to so few.

“Oh. Honey, nobody’s going to want to read that.” She said patronizing me which both her words and the look on her face.

“I mean, I’d read it.”

“You stay at home and sell drugs.”

“At least I can read.”

“That’s a low fuckin’ blow, Johnathan. You know I can read, it’s just hard for me. You’re welcome for the food by the way.”

“I was thinking of going there.” I continued.

“Where?”

“Oregon, to investigate those bear attacks.” I said. This was probably the most serious I’ve been with her ever.

She chortled, “ ‘investigate!’ “ She mocked, “I mean seriously honey, what are you gonna do up there?”

I wasn’t sure I had an answer to her question, I honestly didn’t even know if I would actually do what I told her I was going to do. I may end up stopping in Colorado and stay in Denver for the rest of my life, bears be damned. I may just continue to exist, taking up space here and being a hearty companion to my Fowler.

“I don’t know, I just think there’s something happening up there that isn’t normal.”

“Listen to you, you want to go to Oregon to hunt bears, and you want me to come along?” She asked. I said nothing, I was indifferent either way.

“You’re always talking about going somewhere else. Ugh, honey! Oregon? Where was it last year? Spain?” She nagged on. I had wanted to revisit Spain, I had gone when I was a young man, when I still thrived in life. If I could convince her to go, she’d likely help pay for it.

“Yeah, Spain.” I muttered sullenly, defeated by the reminder of my last failed escape attempt.

“I’m not going to Oregon and neither are you. You have it so good here, you sit around pretending to be a writer. This bear thing is another desperate attempt at being an author, nobody will read anything you write. You’re just going to stay here with me, living off of my hard earned money.” Sometimes after being treated like an object all day, she needed to feel in control. Sometimes she takes things too far. I briefly mourned for all the women in who have heard these same instructions to be a happy prisoner by their partner.

I could not even be upset, she always said what she was thinking. She was a little insulting, but she technically wasn’t wrong. I had never published anything other than some angsty twitter posts that I’d shamefully shake my head at in my current age. Was it a desperate attempt? – I think far worse, I honestly didn’t think anything would come of this. Perhaps it was a desperate attempt, but not at becoming a famous author, but to return to the west. A clandestine mission, disguised as an intrigue for work, was truly just an excuse to change scenery and
perhaps float through life for a few more years until I grew tired of the place, or it of me.

“That’s a little unfair. Would you at least talk to me about it?” I reasoned. I really did enjoy the complementary falacio and willingness to share her hard earned income. Oh, it was ‘hard earned’ alright.

“This is me, going to talk to you about it.” She said as she snatched up the bent spoon and the lighter. It was only a matter of time before she nodded off, I didn’t know what to say.

“Go ahead, convince me to leave Texas and go to Oregon.” She stuck the needle into the liquid and began to suck the junk up. Even at home, she still can’t escape work. She continued reducing the pool of amber and molasses into condensed, charred remains unphased by my silence.

“Well?” She said expectantly, searching for a place to inject.

“I mean it would be fun. Like a vacation, get away.” I supposed.

“Get away?! What are we a family? Do you love me?” She teased. I didn’t know how to answer that question. I didn’t, but telling her that may hurt more than she wants to admit. The truth is, I didn’t remember her name the first 2 months of living here. I loved her in her own way, but not in any manner she had been searching for.

“Don’t be an idiot.” She scoffed. I think silence made her uncomfortable. “Besides, you’re happy here being my driver and maid.” She stuck herself. I loved the amazing almost cosmic dance that would happen when she stuck herself. Her anger with herself and the world would temporarily be put on hold, still building its interest on pain and suffering that it intends to collect on after her short break.

“You love it here.” She triumphantly mustered before slumping on the couch.
She is wrong about one thing though. “I wasn’t happy, and I was going to Oregon.” She’s started to nod already, she’ll be out until tomorrow, she likely won’t even remember this conversation.

She was out, and would be until morning. I gathered my things and collected all the petty cash lying around. Saying petty is petty, between the drug money I had been making and money she’d lost and I’d found, I had around $5,500. I was hurrying, almost in disbelief that I was about to leave here. I had no reason to be frantic, I had no responsibilities, no reason to be here. I owed her nothing nor she to me, yet I still felt guilty.

After I was packed, I sat on the couch next to her and ate some day old pizza. I packed bowl after bowl smoking myself into oblivion. Before I fell asleep I caressed her arm, she was breathing slowly. Her amber skin, once its own warm comfort to me, now was cold, clammy, and devoid of color. I covered her with the blanket and stumbled to the bedroom.

It was funny, I had lived here for almost two years, rent free, with no job. I had produced nothing, I had been asked to contribute nothing except be her personal Jerry. She was mean as hell, but never asked me to settle down and never asked me to be anything I wasn’t. I think she was happy that she had someone to come home to. Despite all that, I was going to leave her with nothing, not even a thank you, and I was going to sleep fine the night before. It’s a long drive to Oregon.

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