Works/Nothing Without Dignity

Ray leaned back in the recliner and watched the three-foot-long cockroach.

It was picking its way carefully down the wallpaper, one spiny leg at a time. It would test the paper in front of it with a leg, as if checking for trapdoors or stickiness, then the leg would land hesitantly, still unsure of its ground. Then the roach would stop moving completely for several seconds, antennae twitching, testing for wind and alien motions.

Then the process would repeat. Over and over.

Even for a three-foot cockroach, Ray figured, it would take a long time for it to get to the baseboard at that rate.

Ray put his feet up on the recliner's extended footrest. The levers inside that supported it were half-broken, so the footrest tilted. Ray always crossed his legs, so that both ankles were on high ground, as it were. If you tried to put any weight on the low end, it just sank to the ground.

Ray had another slug of bourbon and thought of maybe making himself a sandwich. For about the seventh time. Ray's stomach was insisting it should eat something soon, but every time Ray got seriously interested in the idea of getting up, the cockroach would move a little, and Ray would get distracted.

Besides, there had been giant rats in the kitchen the last time he was in there.

Ray didn't worry much about sorting out which ones were hallucinations. He figured the house had cockroaches anyway, and probably a rat or two, so what difference did a few more make? Big, small, they still hadn't figured out how to open the bourbon bottles or the refrigerator.

He didn't care much for rats, though.

Ray reflected on this great truth as he lifted the bottle to his lips, tilting it higher, then higher, and finally coming to grips with the idea that he had the bottle almost inverted but no liguid was coming out. He sighed - a long aspirate hiss like a line of H's in a row - and pulled the lever on the side of the chair, wiggling it a few times and eventually kicking the footrest to get the broken half back into position. He stood up precariously.

As he swung into the kitchen, grabbing the doorframe for support, one of the startled rats drew itself up onto its hind feet, and growled at him. Its head was at about the height of Ray's sternum. Ray took his empty bourbon bottle by the neck and swung it. "Shoo," Ray said. The rat dropped to all fours and slunk off to hide in the dinette. The others waited, hoping Ray would open the refrigerator. But he went to the upper cabinet instead.

Only one more fifth. Tomorrow a trip to the store, then. Maybe the bank, too. Ray didn't worry about money anymore, but not worrying about money meant he was never really sure how much he had in the house. No money in the house was curable; no bourbon in the house was disaster. He broke the seal on the fresh bottle and took a long gulp. The rats watched him closely. Ray opened the refrigerator, stood hanging on the door for a bit, studying its contents. He absently kicked away a rat trying to sneak up behind him.

His inventory of the fridge's spartan contents had somehow arrived at a bacon-and-marmalade sandwich three times when he heard a faint crash.

He waddled to the front door, opened it slowly, and peered around its edge. The apartment hallway was empty. He shrugged and went back inside. He was going to check the windows when he heard his neighbor from next door hollering. He pressed his ear against the wall and tried to make it out. Kids and a baseball, sounded like. Or maybe a football. Or something like that. He chuckled and went back to the recliner.

His neighbor always had been wound a few turns too tight, but ever since the divorce it had been all downhill and grease the skids. Ray wasn't too sure John was right in the head these days. Of course, people probably said that about Ray himself, after Eileen's passing -

Damn it.

Well, only one cure for that.

He'd left the bottle in the kitchen. The cockroach had finally made it to the floor and was now working on crossing the room. Ray kicked it savagely as he passed. It flew down the length of the hall and hit the big oval mirror on the end wall hard, making a noise wet and brittle at the same time.

The bottle was gone.

What the hell? thought Ray. The rats never drank and the cockroaches would have just tipped it over.

He checked the dinette. Nothing there except the rats, disappearing into the shadows in the corners.

Instead of going back through the kitchen, he went from the dinette directly into the living room - and realized the front door stood half-open. He had closed it. Even soused, he was sure he'd closed it.

He let himself plop down into the recliner, feeling for it behind him, still staring at the door. Completely perplexed.

Then he stood up, and staggered into the bathroom to shave. He had to go get more bourbon now, and after all, a man is nothing without his dignity.

Copyright © September 2000. Do not distribute or reproduce.